


Mellifluous

by puffypaw



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - ABO, Animal Death, Ballet Dancer!Peter, Explicit Sexual Content, Home Invasion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Introspection, Jealousy, M/M, Mafia Boss!Tony, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Peter is 18, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Tony is 42, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffypaw/pseuds/puffypaw
Summary: Tony Stark was no one else but a stranger to him until a few hours ago, someone he only heard of from TV news, commercials or playboy magazines.Yet Peter admitted to feeling ‘safe’ with him.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 74
Kudos: 407
Collections: Lov(stark-peter)





	1. The Instinct

“For your whole lives, you will only seek one thing in particular.”

Peter focuses on the velvety voice resonating within the class, doing what seems to be a routine now.

After his first audition nearly a year ago, he’d received an acceptance letter from Queens’ local dance company, _The Blue Swan Dance Academy_. Luckily it’s a prestigious company with a bunch of opportunities for him; he can keep his form in shape with daily practices, participate in various events and simply enjoy performing what he loves the most.

“Perfection.”

His ears are used to hearing the same mantra everyday, so after a while he starts to accept the concept of this whole ‘perfection’ thing, is even fascinated by it, because he knows by now what his teacher is going to say next.

He’s about to make a turn on his toes, when—

A sharp, prickly pain below makes him hiss. There’s a worrying ache on his ankle from last week’s practice, Peter remembers.

The abrupt halt gains him a few heads turned at his way out of curiosity, the hushed whispers are unwanted and distracting more than ever. He tries his best to ignore them and smiles through the pain.

Except that he fails in his attempt to do so.

“You will never be able to achieve it, so,” Natasha Romanoff points her sharp looks at him, and for an eye contact that lasts only two seconds, the message is loud and clear: _go easy on yourself._ “It’s an art of progress, not perfection. Don’t forget that.”

Peter straightens up his position, sweat running down his back.

His closest friend, MJ, smiles at him from where she stands. Peter appreciates the encouragement and repeats the move, cautious. He’s delighted when he earns a soft, “That’s better,” from Miss Romanoff.

He smiles back at MJ.

An Omega at the age of eighteen, he’s aware that it’s not easy to come to the point where he is right now. Being a classical ballet dancer requires endless nights of patience, hardwork, and being ambitious most of all.

He cherishes every moment he spends in this big, white coloured practice room accompanied with a smooth instrumental music. If he succeeds to get in the good graces of Miss Romanoff until the end of the semester, he’ll get the chance to perform at the opening night of the big gala, _The_ _Ballet’s Grace _that happens once every three years.

After the daily practice is over, Peter’s exhausted and covered in sweat everywhere. He checks his phone only to see that he has two missed calls from Aunt May aside from her messages.

_the foods runnin cold_

_guess I’ll eat alone_

_???_

He sends a quick text back. _sorry_. _ibb b4 it gets dark _

_ok bb, love u_

_don’t forget to buy milk on the way back_

Peter smiles at the mention of Carla; the sweet stray kitten he rescued on a rainy autumn day, presumably climbed a tree but couldn’t find her way down, too scared. He recalls the moment he took her home, and how she became attached to his lap ever since.

_sure will do_

He stops by the city park on his way back to soothe his aching muscles. It’s a place he often comes to, surrounded by big trees and leading to a long park alley. Since Peter hit his presenting age, the Omega feels nervous at times. Despite the long evening traffic happening right outside, the scenery calms his nerves, clears his head. He needs this.

Peter looks around; a teenage boy is running after a ball, plus a lovely couple is basking in each other’s company a few benches away (which makes him turn his head the opposite way, face flushed all of a sudden). He sits on an empty bench and places the brown shopping bag on his lap. His eyelids get heavier the more he struggles to keep them open, so in the end he closes them with a huge yawn, knowing that it’s a losing battle to fight.

The naked tree branches remind him of how much he misses the spring already, he can’t wait to see the trees bloom to life and paint the sky in whites and pinks.

Surely that wouldn’t be all, the Spring Heat would come in its glory as well: an enchanting time of the year purely devoted to the Omegas. Peter wants to be one of them so bad, a thrilling desire to _taste_ what it’s like falling in love. An Omega’s heat truly begins once they find the ‘other’ half of their hearts and souls, an unbreakable bond for life on both parties. His heat wouldn’t kick in unless he finds an eligible mate to be destined with.

Omegas are remarkable creatures in their nature, and being an unclaimed one is more risky than ever. Until then, he’s glad Aunt May doesn’t set strict rules for the sake of his safeness.

He intends to keep it that way.

*

Tony Stark, at the age of forty-two, had enjoyed twelve years of being totally irresponsible after losing his parents, and freely had let Obadiah Stane take control of the family business. Since the betrayal of someone whom he’d actually considered as family, things have changed.

_If you think I’d hesitate even a second for this..._

Being stabbed in the back takes a man some time to regain their balance and strength back. If Tony has to bear the blood on his hands for that, so be it.

_You’re no more controlling me._

He takes all the reins in his own hands, the way things are meant to be. Tonight is no different: getting rid of the mess a bunch of idiots left behind who thought it would be smart to threaten him. Him; genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. The Alpha head of both the renowned Stark Mafia and the largest tech conglomerate in the world, Stark Industries.

He despised getting his hands dirty, but he has to strangle his enemies at birth, now that he’s learned his lesson, now that he knows better than to underestimate. The bitter taste of betrayal stings on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol messing with him. He started to drink more than usual, and he’s not the only one to notice that either.

Pepper is looking at him with piercing eyes across the seat.

“I hate the taste of water.”

“C’mon, Tony. That’s what you come up with? You’re truly devastated,” she snorts.

“Am I? What about using those pretty legs to good use and get a goddamn bottle of Vitamin C for me?”

“You know what? Forget it. It’s better you drown in that bottle and get wasted completely, then I’ll—”

“No, Pep—”

“-enjoy the pleasure of utter silence—”

“I want the goddamn vitamin—”

“-which is an exception in your presence!”

“Are you guys done?” Happy throws his hands in the air, seemingly frustrated. The bickering absurdly stops after that.

Tony discerns the Alpha’s tension in the air is affecting his friends, too. Pepper, _in sober fact, _worries about him and Happy is rather annoyed for God knows what reason this time. And here he thinks carrying on the business with his ‘ex-lover’ secretary who is an Alpha as well is the worst thing that can ever happen to a man.

Happy. Happy who’s not so happy at the moment is much worse.

Tony looks outside the window, asking, “What the hell are we doing in Queens anyway?”

*

Peter must’ve fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes an unknown amount of time later it’s already dark on the ‘creepy’ side. He blinks a few times to regain his sight but sees nothing else other than the empty benches.

There’s a desolate feel to the place.

He stands up to leave. “Shit. May’s gonna be pissed.”

That’s when he senses another presence, someone approaching him from behind. More like, sneaking up on him.

*

There’s traffic that keeps them going bit by bit, probably two drivers swearing to each other and occupying the road for the others. “The Audi doesn’t deserve this torture,” Tony sighs, patting the rich texture of the interior design.

“Neither do I,” Happy grunts, then blows the horn at the car getting ahead of them, “I see you, asshole!”

“...Never mind.”

Tony tosses the glass aside after finishing his drink, looking outside. There’s not much going on; trees, trees, lights, trees again, until there _is_, until he sees it from the corner of his eye. Misses it out, almost.

At such a late hour of the day, he doesn’t know how, how come he focuses on that one lean figure so far away from his range of vision. Tony knows what he sees. “_Cazzo._”[1]

He grits his teeth harshly, jaw clenching, breathes short and through his nose, an instantaneous reaction shocking himself, shocking all of them. His eyes are probably shining red like the traffic lights on the road, too.

“Tony? Hey, what’s wrong?”

The word ‘wrong’ irritates his nerve endings even more. “Stop the car.”

Happy obeys immediately, pulling the car sideways.

He spots two people in particular. For a second he wants to assume it’s a couple trying to work things out. It’s not his business, nor concern. He wants to believe it so.

There is something not quite right about the setting.

The Omega (Tony just _knows_ he is one) pushes the man in front of him, punches his chest in a desperate attempt that screams _help._ Tony gets out of the car in lightspeed, not waiting for Happy to properly park it and running towards them. The Alpha doesn’t like what he sees, doesn’t want the young man to get hurt. His only thought is _help him,_ and it’s not even a thought by this point, Tony decides, it’s the instinct.

“...is all I’m sayin’.”

“What part of ‘no’ you don’t understand?!”

“S’ gon’ be lotta fun.”

“Get away from me! I said—”

“-nasty little bitch!”

The Omega falls to the ground with a loud bump, groaning in pain. Tony is late to stop it, he hates himself for it, and in the middle of all the fight and adrenaline, he realizes that this is the face of a young _kid._ So young.

He is determined to beat the shit out of the drunken bastard.

“What the hell, man?!”

“You better keep that fucking mouth shut.”

Tony lands a fist at the man right in the eye, knocking him out on the spot, rage clouding his sight, clouding his judgement, painting it in red. Perhaps it’s the man’s bloody face he caused in mere seconds that blurs his vision. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop there.

He roars, sputters in the stranger’s face with rage, smashes it _hard._

“You’ll pay for this. You hear me?” His voice sounds strange even to his own ears, a furious growl far, far away. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He pulls the gun out of his jacket, sees the foul is unconscious to beg for his life. Good. It’d be an attempt in vain anyway. 

He places the gun inside the Alpha’s mouth.

That’s when he hears _someone_ beg.

“Please! Don’t!”

The boy cries out, holds a shaky hand to cover his mouth. To silence his sobs maybe. It doesn’t escape Tony’s notice that his eyes linger on the tiny pink mouth a little longer than necessary.

“Don’t! Oh, God! Don’t!”

“Don’t worry, boss. I’ll take it from here,” Happy speaks in his ear in a hurry.

He trusts Happy to do what he’s got to do without being told. Besides he doesn’t want to do _that_ in front of the kid, he decides, once he takes in the sight of him; the Omega’s face, white as a sheet at the violance played before his eyes, and the wet lashes surrounding them.

“P-please...”

Big, wild orbs shine with terror.

Tony doesn’t want to scare him off more than he already did. Anyone would do the same thing... react the same way. Right?

_Right, Tony?_

He has no time to debate with himself, his priority is someone else entirely. Someone with a delicate neck, and trembling lips. He notices, again, that the focus of his eyes are still on the kid’s mouth. It’s just. More dangerous than what just happened, even.

He clears his throat. “You okay, kid?”

The boy looks at him in horror. Disgusted at the blood on his face, no doubt. Tony doesn’t mind it at all, he’s familiar with all types of violence. Then again, he’d seen things that even someone like him shouldn’t have witnessed in the first place.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.” He leans in to the boy, can’t help it.

The assurance, no matter how true it is, gets him another series of hiccups. “He came out of nowhere! T-tried to- to-”

“Did he?” he has to ask, eyes intent and leveled with the kid’s.

The brown orbs are filled with tears. “N-no.” Then comes the whisper, hoarse, Tony almost wouldn’t catch it. “You saved me.”

Tony shouldn’t come any closer to him, considering what was about to happen in the first place. But he doesn’t know what to do other than to take the fragile frame in his arms.

So he does.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” He murmurs at the boy’s soft hair, caresses it in what he hopes to be a calming gesture. “_Va bene piangere... _ssh...”[2]

His left hand trembles, so he keeps that one to himself, and his voice comes out hoarse contrary to his shushing. The Alpha in him is still on the alert, restless. He finds himself wanting to keep this young thing by his side, just a little longer.

“It’s Peter.”

The sobs fizzle out. Tony stills.

“M-my name. It’s Peter. Parker,” Peter repeats himself in a trilly voice.

“Can you stand up, Peter?”

He attempts. Doesn’t succeed, though. “Guess I hurt my ankle when I fell down,” he says quietly, hand gripping the mentioned area.

“It’s okay. I’ll carry you.”

“I don’t know if it’s a—oh!”

He picks Peter in his arms in a bridal carry, for he’s sure that the boy is unable to wrap his legs around him safely.

“I’ll take the car, you let me know later,” he tells Happy over his shoulder.

“Sure thing, boss. What about Miss Potts?”

“Don’t worry about her.”

He walks towards the car with Peter in his arms, about to ask him what his home address is. Then he meets with two closed eyelids, dry tears leaving subtle traces on his milky skin. He’s asleep with the crash of adrenaline, or passed out, Tony’s not sure. His heart beats safe and sound, and for now that’s all that matters.

He hops on to the driver’s seat after carefully laying Peter’s slender form at the back seat.

Pepper looks horrified.

“Don’t ask.”

“Sure. Yeah, sure.”

Anyway she sounds like she doesn’t want to know.

*

A proud view of highly luxurious room welcomes Peter back to consciousness; if a chandelier needs to be pumped with that much crystal, that is. The bed feels soft and yielding under his weight, the pillows, the silk sheets—

Aunt May doesn’t have_ silk sheets._

He tries to stand, and sways in his place when all he sees is the dancing black spots behind his eyelids.

“Hey, easy, kid. Easy.”

Someone hands him a cup of water and supports his back for him to stand upright, a tentative touch that doesn’t make him jump out of his skin right away. Peter drinks it in small, unhurried swallows. Knowing that he won’t fall down because someone is there to hold him steady.

That someone being the man who came to his rescue.

Peter exhales the air he didn’t realize he held in until his lungs started to hurt. And he only realizes now that he’s holding the man’s upper arm in a tight grip, even though he already handed him the empty cup back. He can feel the tense muscles under his touch.

Peter tries to regain his posture back and lets go of the Alpha (Peter just _knows_ he is one) with burning cheeks, not able to meet his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

_Alpha,_ Peter has to remind himself.

“It’s alright. You’re in Stark mansion, you’re safe here,” the man nods to himself, like an assurance meant not only for Peter, but for himself, too.

Those soft assurances were the only thing that kept Peter sane until now, even the parts he didn’t understand the meaning of, presumedly another language. Peter finds himself missing the warmth of the older man’s skin, too. A ferocious fire against all the coldness around him, that’s how Peter felt next to the Alpha. He _tasted_ the fire on his tongue, his palms, _all over his—_ is that how it _feels _to—

He shakes his head.

Wait.

“You said Stark mansion? You’re. You.”

“Frankly, I’m me, kid. Tony Stark in the flesh.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“I need someone to pinch me, like, right now.”

Tony Stark smirks at him, although doesn’t grant his wish like Peter’s been anticipating.

Maybe Peter is indeed hallucinating. He feels like he’s about to pass out a second time, yet tries to hold himself together for the sake of one of the world’s most powerful men in front of him. It’s _Tony_ Stark. Wow.

“Wow. I mean. It’s surreal.”

He’s doing a great job of holding it together, just great.

“I dunno, kid, it felt pretty real to me,” his smirk fades away as fast as it appeared. “As much as I hope it happened under different circumstances...” He doesn’t seem willing to finish his sentence.

Peter doesn’t want to think about that, either. He can’t, or he’ll simply faint.

Mr Stark’s gaze is soft when he continues, understanding. “I wanted to take you to your place, but you were passed out, so.”

“Yeah. Right,” he gulps, the sound of the miserable motion is audible. “Um.”

“Dr Cho checked on you while you were asleep. She recommended to apply some ointment, and to definitely put ice on it,” he points at Peter’s ankle.

“Thanks, Mr Stark. Thank you,” Peter falters. “Seriously.”

Mr Stark shrugs, “It’s nothing, kid.”

_Why do you keep calling me that?_

“I’m damn glad there’s no permanent damage on your body.” His eyes skim over Peter’s frame, but before Peter can bury himself in the mattress with embarrassment, Mr Stark goes on, “Physically.”

Their eyes meet again.

“How are you feeling?” Mr Stark asks.

It’s his turn to shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

Really, he’s fine. Fine, and...

“Safe,” he adds, not meeting his eyes.

They fall into silence, but for some reason it doesn’t make Peter feel super nervous or out of place like he usually does next to a stranger. It’s true indeed: Tony Stark was no one else but a stranger to him until a few hours ago, someone he only heard of from TV news, commercials or playboy magazines.

Yet Peter admitted to feeling ‘safe’ with him.

Now that Mr Stark said ‘physically’... His ankle throbs, the one that was already sensitive for a while is much worse, now. “It hurts, actually.” He admits with a shy hand gesture towards it.

Mr Stark responses instantly, “I’m on it,” then uncaps the ointment placed on the nightstand. Peter reaches forth to uncover the silky sheets around his legs, but the man stops him halfway. “No, you lay back. I’ll do it.” 

The Omega shudders involuntarily.

Mr Stark doesn’t seem to notice the reaction he caused, too focused on his task already. Peter does as he’s told, trying to keep still.

He likes it.

He likes the sight of those thick fingers covering his slim ankles both. Knows what those hands are capable of. He saw them covered in blood, holding what seemed to be a heavy gun. He saw everything. Hell, he saw _Tony Stark._ Ruthless. Brutal. He remembers those terrifying moments with a chill going down his spine.

“What were you doing out there so late, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s alright,” Peter reassures him. “It was supposed to be one of my usual visits. I admire the scenery, the sense of calm when I’m there."

“Sounds like you were trying to escape from a bedlam.”

“_You_ make it sound ridiculous now,” Peter chuckles.

“Absolutely not,” Mr Stark doesn’t look at him, but the corner of his lip turns upwards. “I’d say you be more careful next time, tag someone along with you if you must.”

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Sure you can.”

“I can,” Peter insists. “I just didn’t expect to be seen.”

There’s a brief halt to Mr Stark’s slow motions on his skin.

“You didn’t expect to—what?”

He looks at Peter with his mouth slightly agape.

“I said—” he makes a vague motion with his hand, “Never mind. It’s ridiculous, right,” Peter feels overwhelmed under the man’s gaze, as if his strong hands weren’t a torture already.

“I heard what you said, I just don’t understand what makes you think that. One must be blind not to see you.”

His cheeks feel warm when he tries to explain, “Let’s just say... I spend most of my time in a competitive environment. People hardly notice me at daylight. It’s not like the same wouldn’t apply to the end of the day.”

“You’re serious, Parker.”

“I am,” Peter nods. Breaking the eye contact with Tony Stark is seemingly impossible at this point.

“Have you seen yourself? Clearly not. Let me tell you this,” he shakes his head, disbelieving. “If you seriously think that way, it’s more likely you than those people around you who’s failed to see _you._”

This time, it’s Peter’s chest that feels warm. It’s so much warmer, keeps getting warmer with each breath in.

“You say it like you do.”

“I do, kid. I do see you,” Mr Stark’s jaw clenches. “I saw you out there, remember?”

It’s impossible not to feel the fire. It’s a crime to even think about tearing his gaze away.

“I saw you, too,” he gulps. “I’ve never seen someone so—”

“...crazed?”

“-protective of me.”

Mr Stark doesn’t say anything. Peter babbles anyway, cheeks flushed, eyes tranced.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you went after him. Glad you didn’t, though. I’m glad you’re here. Because I,” _just zip it, Parker, this is where you zip it— _“I saw your eyes, I—_ah,_” the stinging pain causes Peter’s leg to jerk.

Mr Stark murmurs a quiet apology under his breath, returning his attention to his work in hand with a sharp intake of breath and very clearly ending the conversation.

_Your eyes were red, Mr Stark. Ablaze. Red and burning fierce._

Peter’s in awe with how tender he’s being treated; rough fingers massage his skin with such delicate strokes, thumb rubbing in carefully. He likes this state of feeling, where his eyes close and body goes limp under Stark’s care and not having to worry about anything else.

He knows that Tony Stark is a dangerous man. He knows that he’s in a dangerous man’s house, in his bed. Well, not exactly _his_ bed, that would be crazy, but definitely in a bed that he owns nonetheless.

Peter feels a heat washing over him in spite of the current ache, forcing him to squeeze in his thighs on a sudden impulse.

“I—I think that’s enough.”

Mr Stark pulls back on demand and checks him over thoroughly which does not help to slow down Peter’s heartbeat at all. He wipes his hands on his pants and stands, “I’ll bring some ice to put on it. You wanna make a call? You shouldn’t walk on your feet in this position.”

Peter knows he’s right. Still, part of him wishes he was curled in a ball of blankets watching TV in the familiarity of his home, and not worry about how his aunt is going to freak out about all this.

“You can crash in here, if that’s what you worry about.”

“Um. I’ll make a call quick, then I guess I’m done for the day.”

Mr Stark nods, seemingly content to hear his answer. “You can find everything you need here, toothbrush, clothes, whatever it is. The servants are off duty, so call me if you need anything.”

“Sure, Mr Stark, thank you,” he means it.

“Don’t sweat it, kid.”

With Mr Stark leaving, Peter takes a deep breath, grabs his phone from his back pocket and dials the number, trying to think of an excuse for the night.

“Peter?! What the fu—?!“

Here we go.

*

After making sure that Peter got the treatment he needed and fallen asleep on the spot, Tony heads to where Pepper is.

He stops by the corner on his tiptoes. Just in case.

And he turns out to be right.

“...freaking lost it, Rhodey. You should’ve seen him.”

There’s a short break before she speaks.

“Don’t I know that? Told you so... Yes, hopefully. Okay, I’ll see you there.”

“Talking behind your boss’ back, huh?” Tony scolds her with a finger, entering the study room. “U-uh. So rude.”

Pepper puts her phone back in her clutch, not taking her eyes off him while doing so. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Not tonight, apparently. When you clear your head, and he leaves here.”

Tony frowns at her tone, more than her choice of words.

“I’ll let you know what you need to know, Pep.” Sometimes it’s a little difficult to set the boundaries between the two Alphas. “You don’t need to stay. It’s not like we can get any work done here tonight anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walks to the bar and pours himself a drink, hoping she’ll get the cue to leave him alone.

“Don’t you think you had enough of that for today?”

“Just clearing my head,” Tony says half-mockingly, raising his glass in the air.

She doesn’t fight him any longer. She must be exhausted as much as him, it seems.

“Suit yourself. Good night.”

“Night,” Tony replies back to the empty room, looking outside the wide windows that show the whole city in its glory. Before he knows it, there’s a message from Happy.

_done_

He’s at ease for all the lives he ended tonight.

Still, at the end of the day, there’s a feeling in his chest that leaves him out of breath. Something he’s never experienced before. It’s foreign, daring, but he embraces it despite everything. He feels good. Fuck that. Fuck good. He feels grateful to be able to save Peter’s life.

“Peter Parker,” he mutters the name to himself. With an unconscious impulse, his tongue darts out to lick his lips, as if it savours the taste of each letter voiced.

That’s when he feels like shit. _That’s_ when it hits him.

Comically that, Tony has to bring a hand on his chest to dispel the numbness there.

The Alpha-red eyes. The thunderous roar. The blinding rage. The satisfaction that only comes with the assurence of protecting your territory, protecting what’s yours solely—all being the signs of arguably one thing—_no._ No it can’t be. Not this fast, at least, not this _excruciating._

Tony’s been alone for so, so long. The idea that he finally found his—he can’t bring himself to say it.

It’s cruel in its unpredictability, the question that will keep him awake until the sunrise, all the while the dreadful possibility gnawing at him: What on earth is he going to do now?

* * *

[1] Shit.

[2] It's okay to cry.


	2. The Redhead

The sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and creates a mesmerizing canvas of iridescent glitters on the giant cut crystal balls.

Peter tosses and turns around the king size bed some more, knowing the peaceful, golden morning to be his only chance at indulging himself in Stark’s luxury. It’s not a matter of wealth he’s yearning for, but the luxury of silence and tranquil. The pillows feel very soft under his warm cheek, and he’s holding another one close to his chest, a loose, one-sided hug—a sleeping habit he never could outgrew himself of. Then there’s this enormous, cozy blanket covering him everywhere, someplace safe.

He doesn’t want to pick up his phone from the nightstand, doesn’t want to face the daylight yet. Which is why he refuses to open his eyelids, despite the reflecting sun starting to hurt his tender skin. God, Peter can’t remember a single night where he slept this much soundly, and it should be the final thought to finally wake him up and face the reality, isn’t it.

He’d fallen asleep with his yesterday outfit, so he decides to use all those shower jets to his own benefit. The liquid heat washes away whatever tension was left on his body, even the sound of the water running is a balm to the soul. He stands under the spray until his fingers turn pruney.

Peter halts before exiting the luxurious room, fingers curling on the doorknob but unable to go further. Now what. What’s he going to say to the Alpha other than how eternally grateful he is?

He doesn’t know this place, he realizes when he walks up to the sunlit corridor. There are house personnel and guards all around, suited in jet-black, minding their own business. The crowd and background noises combined are literally as different as night and day in contrast to yesterday's quiet atmosphere.

“Good morning, Mr Parker.”

Peter turns around to see a tall, bulky man bowing respectfully to him, stopping him in his tracks with the unexpected gesture.

“Mr Stark hopes you had a goodnight’s rest. He’s currently waiting for you to attend breakfast. Let me assist you,” the man articulates each word without maintaining eye contact, which is equal parts of interesting and weird. He leads the way, not waiting for Peter’s response.

It’s a silent journey from the elevator to what he supposes is the main area of the mansion: fancy, elegant furnishing is masterfully combined with leather lounge suite, a modern style that is both practical and eye-pleasing. The spacious room is glazed just like the rest of the mansion’s architecture is, exposing the whole city’s scenery, apart from the giant flat screen TV which is mounted on the single gold-plated decorative wall, presently streaming a NBA game live.

It’s a place he’d like to come back to. It would be nice to be invited to.

“Good morning, Mr Parker,” Mr Stark calls out, making his presence known.

The same salute, but doing nothing to slow down Peter’s racing thoughts for some reason.

“Hey, mornin',” Peter waves at him, and—slaps himself mentally.

He can’t help a blush creeping up his neck, it’s just that. The man looks so good in a grey blazer and a basic white t-shirt under it. That’s all. Mr Stark smiles, genuine, and if Peter happens to spot the dark circles under the man’s eyes, he doesn’t speak it.

Mr Stark makes a motion with his hand that indicates Peter to come sit with him. Casual, laid-back. It wouldn’t be Peter’s fault if he were to mistakenly find himself sitting on top of him.

“I’ve totally forgetten to ask if you were hungry last night,” Mr Stark starts, with a grimace probably at himself.

“Not sure if I could take a bite at all, so that’s okay.”

“Still. You could use some calories,” he casts a glance at him.

“I think I’m weighing just fine. A few pounds more and you wouldn’t be able to carry me.”

“Funny, considering that I would’ve carry you in any way necessary.”

Peter’s breath hitches. “There’s no way I can persuade you, then.”

“Exactly. I win. You lose, and the loser has to eat everything.”

Before Peter can protest, his stomach agrees with the man, vocally. Traitor.

The table consists of a classical French breakfast, and Peter eats with happy noises which apparently urges Mr Stark to put more of literally everything into his plate, as he stated beforehand. It’s a comfortable silence otherwise.

Until Mr Stark pointedly clears his throat, demanding Peter’s utmost attention.

“My sources tell me that your attacker last night was a rogue Alpha who’s been harassing the streets for a long while. No idea how we didn’t notice him before.”

Peter puts the spoon down with a good final lick, losing his appetite at the mention of yesterday’s events. He looks up to see the Alpha’s lingering eyes on his mouth, eyes that suggest him that Mr Stark didn’t touch his plate at all.

“What’s going to happen to him? Shouldn’t we call the police?”

There is a not-so-subtle halt before Mr Stark chuckles darkly, “We don’t call the police, sweetheart.”

_Right._

Peter feels stupid and hot on the cheeks, but Mr Stark seems amused if the endearment is anything to go by. It doesn’t escape his notice that Stark didn’t reply to his earlier question either.

He’s afraid to ask, “Is he..?”

“Oh, yes. Burned to the ground. Well, what’s left of him, anyways,” Mr Stark tells him with a nonchalant wave of his fork.

Plain and simple.

Peter might throw up everything he just swallowed. At any minute.

“I thought you wouldn’t. Do that, I mean.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don't fancy getting my hands dirty either,” Mr Stark gives a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it anymore. The lack of warmness gives place to the feeling of ice cold air blowing across the face.

“You gave the order, is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Should I be relieved?”

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

“What if I’m far from relieved?”

Mr Stark eyes him carefully.

“I had to be sure he wouldn’t lay a hand on you again,” he says with such ease, like it’s a natural instinct of his.

A moment of silence passes on Peter’s part, and Mr Stark pushes his plate away with a finality to it.

“Are you scared, Peter?” he asks, leaning forward. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“A part of me is,” Peter admits just as quietly.

A short pause.

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ in there.”

Peter doesn’t know how to express his feelings in full measure. It's hard to put into words when it’s even harder to keep any coherent thoughts at all, especially whilst Mr Stark is looking at him all potent and mighty, as in he has the power to destroy anything that will dare to come on his way, and the truth is that he doesn’t only has the power, he _is_ the embodiment of power; ruling the realms of both violence _and_ pleasure.

Peter feels a rush of heat, remediless, wash over him, thinking of himself to be the subject of such a powerful man’s fury.

“But,” he takes a deep breath, “another part of me isn’t, and that scares me most of all. I’m sorry, Mr Stark.”

“Don’t be.”

Peter’s gaze falls to the ground.

“_No._ Eyes on me.”

The Alpha grabs Peter’s chin, thumb pressing in to the little dimple there, and lifts it with his fingertip, forcing Peter to look up and meet his gaze.

As if there was an invisible button pressed, the intimate touch spreads a soothing warmth all over his already heated skin, grounding him. The cold breeze is long gone, and Peter forgets why he was worried at the first place.

_Please don’t let me get used to this feeling._

They are way, way too close than they were just a moment ago.

“I couldn’t let him get away with what he did—almost,” Mr Stark adds quickly, leaning back in his chair, putting a safe distance between them. Regardless of his dark eyes still locked intently on Peter’s.

“I know monsters much worse than him like the back of my hand. Trust me. First chance he got, he’d do it again. Don’t you ever give a man the luxury of a second chance, Parker. Understood?”

Peter nods in a silent agreement.

Mr Stark pats his shoulder lightly, then puts his red-tinted glasses on, and just like that, the shared moment between them becomes a suspended memory.

“Now that we’re clear, tell me where Happy should drop you off?”

*

Unfortunately, Mr Stark finds Peter’s idea of taking a bus on the way back _absolutely ridiculous, in no way you’re allowed for such thing_, and doesn’t listen to anything Peter has to say after that; the ride to his destination has already been arranged on the spot. The Alpha also makes sure to give Peter a small, neat package full of ointments before his departure, insisting that _it’s the doctor’s orders, kid, not mine._

Peter isn’t convinced of that statement very much, but appreciates the polite gesture with a smile nonetheless. Besides, he wouldn’t have any problem with obeying the man’s orders like a good little Omega servant, a hysterical part of his mind highlights the subtle thought beneath the surface.

He’s all good after a long night’s rest, yet makes a mental note to dig out the medical contents later at home.

He goes straight to the academy since he’s already half an hour late—May’s at work right now, he opts to tell her everything once they’re both in the privacy of their home. (Without freaking her out, which is very unlikely.)

The rest of his thoughts are occupied with something else entirely, something _infuriating._ The last thing Peter witnessed on the glorious mansion plays before his eyes like a broken record on a loop.

Just before he took off with Mr Hogan, who is Mr Stark’s right hand (whose face he barely catched a glimpse of during the fight), he saw a very, _very_ sexy redhead, as if she'd come straight out of _Vogue_, standing proud and confident in her bright red high heels. Her perfectly styled hair had managed to cover the side of her face, but not her eager lips in the slightest, which were busy with kissing the Alpha on the lips.

*

“...and that’s where the problem lies. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tony ends the call without waiting for a response, a toothy grin on his face for having the last word as usual.

“You never miss a chance to rile the shit outta that guy,” Rhodey rolls his eyes at him, but he’s grinning too.

“I saw my opportunity and I took it,” he swings a finger in the air, “that’s the golden rule of the business.”

“Which one, exactly? The one where your genius plays at, or the guns?” he asks, the dislike in his voice is evident, but not meant to hurt.

Rhodey’s never been fond of the Mafia business, what with his long time friend’s life being under threat at all times and places. Tony gets where Rhodey’s coming from; he would kill anything and everything, if something were to happen to his beloved ones, without hesitation, nor vacillation. On the other hand, he knows he can’t just walk out of this long-established empire, out of the blue. It would be a chaos left behind.

“Excuse me, my genius plays at both.”

“If you say so,” Rhodey leaves it at that, and it’s a relief on Tony’s part.

Between their small chit-chat and banter, Pepper comes by to drop a dozen of nonsense, aka _paperwork, Tony, sounds familiar?_ on Tony’s desk. She’s more than happy to see Rhodey though, an air to it that tells Tony she was expecting him here today.

The powerful steps of her blood-red stilettos echo through the long halls of the SI Tower on her way out, and when it’s just the two of them again Rhodey asks: “Are you guys back together or somethin’?”

“No,” Tony answers, honest. “Why?”

“She’s the happiest I’ve seen her, first time in a long time. Can’t you tell?”

“Where did you get the idea that she’s ever been happy with me in any occasion for _once_ in her life?”

Rhodey laughs.

“No, that’s just who I am. Don’t laugh at me now, I’m working,” he pokes Rhodey’s shoulder with the cap of his fountain pen.

“Since when are you hiding things from me?” Rhodey teases him.

“There’s nothing to tell, buddy. She’s recently been jittery, what with both the SI dealings—”

“Her mood doesn’t have anything to do with Parker?”

Tony presses into the paper too hard, to the point of damaging the nib—purely accidental.

“I’ve got no freaking idea why she’d be annoyed at the kid in the first place.”

“I think you do.”

It’s said in a teasing manner, not accusing. However Rhodey never bothers himself to say something he doesn’t mean to. His face tells it all.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he reacts in disbelief.

“We both know she’s not over you, and... a pretty, young Omega stealing all the attention away... Her words, not mine, by the way...”

Tony does a smart move not to agree to the word ‘pretty’ out loud.

“We parted our ways a long time ago. It’s the Louboutins keeping the business rolling, frankly speaking.”

“Dunno, man. She sounded quite bothered when she called me last night, is what I’m saying.”

“Too bad. That’s her problem, isn’t it?”

Tony doesn’t tell his friend about the tiny accident this morning; a brief, playful kiss Pepper had pressed on his lips upon receiving her spontaneous gift. She does that on rare occasions in which she’s genuinely happy with him, nothing harmful nor _malicious_. Now that he thinks about it...

Tony’s not so sure if he should interpret it favourably or not.

*

Peter is cornered with endless questions about the flashy Audi all day long—which he claims he’s not the owner of. Even Liz, who’s one of the most talented members of the dance crew, asks him about it. _No? Then who’s the mysterious owner, Peter? Tell us all the juicy details!_

He’s strecthing over the _barre_—a horizontal bar along the studio wall—when MJ comes in. They’ve been working on their choreography for almost two months now, on most, if not all, days of the week.

“One month left, Parker. Then we’re all gonna have a nice, long semester chillin’.”

MJ takes her own place next to him, and together they begin the ordinary warm-up exercises.

Next month will be the academy’s foundation anniversary; Miss Romanoff paired them up for the main play of the night which is a _huge_ deal. It won’t be Peter’s first time performing on stage, obviously, but it’ll probably be his ‘the one and only chance’ to prove himself that, _yes, he’s the perfect choice for The Ballet’s Grace,_ the dream gala that he’ll get to make himself known to a dozen of famous names searching for young talents. He anticipates it more than anything.

“You think we gonna make it to the deadline?”

“Yeah.”

“And charm the audience?”

“Nope,” she says, stressing the ‘p’ sound.

Peter looks up at her from his current position, “No?”

“We gonna crush ‘em, babe,” she winks at him, all confident.

The rehearsal goes on for a long period of time after that.

*

When they decide to call it a day, they sit on the floor with their backs to the wall, exhausted, trying to catch their breaths between each gulp of water.

“I feel like a sack of potatoes,” Peter groans.

“I’ve thought that was your current mood.”

“Fuck off,” he tosses the drink to her lap, grinning.

They chat for a while; it’s mostly MJ talking about this TV show she fell in love with and finished shortly after. It’s no surprise, when she’s the epitome of ‘binge-watching.’

“How do you make time for that? My head hits the pillow as soon as I’m home.”

She arches her brow.

“What?”

“Well. It depends on whose home that is and what activity you do in it—which I’m pretty sure is not sleeping, by the looks of it.”

“Not you, too,” Peter groans again.

Even the smallish possibility of that implication fires up his already too hot skin.

“No, uh. It’s just,” she’s laughing as she speaks, “you wear the same clothes as yesterday’s. Then you drive a fan-freaking-tastic Audi here! Sorry, I meant your _chauffeur._”

“What does that even mean?!”

“Means you got laid! Can’t believe my eyes!”

“God, no!” he goes red in a heartbeat, and covers his face with sweaty palms. “It’s not what you think it is!”

“Then what is it, Peter?”

Is it really that important, Peter wonders. Then again, he’s tired of all the misunderstandings and assumptions he’s been the subject of the whole day, and decides to tell her everything.

The Omega watches how the joy in her expression transforms into something close to fear, the palpable shift on her flawless features resembling of the rain clouds hiding the bright sun behind, in the blink of an eye.

*

Peter goes by the same route when it comes to Aunt May, only it’s not the rain clouds this time. It’s the flood and hurricane all rolled into one—a catastrophe.

“And you’re telling me NOW?!”

He winces at the high pitched cry she makes. Carla must be hiding in somewhere behind out of fear. Peter wishes he could do the same.

“I know it’s not what—”

“I’m losing my mind, here!”

_So do I_. “I’m fine, May. I swear. Please believe me when I say this.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but manages to take a deep breath before sitting next to him on the couch. “I love you, baby, you must know that,” she takes Peter’s hands in hers in a tight grip.

Peter sighs with relief; he’ll always be fond of hearing those three words from her, whether he’s eighteen or eighty.

“As much as I dislike the idea of you staying the night at a stranger’s place,” she hesitates for a second, “I’m glad it was Tony _freaking_ Stark that saved you, at least.”

He feels it’s safe to say that: “I’m glad it was him, too.”

“What about the attacker?”

The carpet. It’s become ragged over time, worn out at the edges—

“Peter?”

“Huh?”

“Baby, I just wondered if—”

“I heard you, May. Mr Stark made sure he won’t be laying hands on me again,” he says, an answer that leaves no room for further questions.

Carla eventually comes out (she gets so nervous whenever there’s a loud noise at home, yelling for instance, or a glass shattering to the ground, she’s too sensitive) and crawls up to his lap, seeking attention. She’s used to the routine of their nightly cuddles, and last night he couldn’t provide it for her.

“Sorry for the milk,” Peter mumbles, burying his nose at her soft fur. Sadly, losing the shopping bag wasn’t even the last thing on his mind while he was fighting the rogue Alpha tooth and nail.

As they settle into the couch more comfortably and pick a movie to watch, he’s still shaken by the truth that he’s getting the real meaning of at this instant: Tony Stark killed a man for him.

Without hesitation.

Without remorse.

*

Tony is lounging in one of the leather loveseats of _The Captain_, a small but very modern bar residing in Brooklyn. One of the bartenders rushes over to him to bring his order just in time, and Tony rewards him with a generous amount of tip for his service.

“Thank you very much, sir.”

The place is loud with music and laughter, the pheromones interpenetrate in a luscious blend for its wealthy guests. If he focuses hard, he can make out the sound of glasses clinking in celebration a few tables ahead. The sleek modern interior is illuminated by a mix of red and blue, and at the very back a stage is set up for a pole dance yet to be started.

A mignon silhouette is standing right across where Tony is seated, and the Alpha doesn’t need to raise his head and read into what the stranger’s intentions are, since he can smell the voluptuous Omega scent self-evidently.

It’s blindingly obvious what he wants. If it were just a night ago, Tony would motion for him to come over, let him sit on his lap and wreck his clothes without a care in the world.

_You’re not him,_ Tony would tell him, now.

He takes a sip from his drink, indulging in the sweet gulp burning his throat on its way down, and ruminates over last night’s events, because he’s a masochist like that.

_Did you feel it, too?_ He wants to ask. _Did it feel like fire licking at your skin, consuming you inside out, or was it just the monster I carry within punishing me for the way I dared to look at you?_

“I still can’t belive you agreed to Stevie’s offer!”

Bucky greets him with a cheerful smile, almost managing to startle him from his thoughts in the process.

“Oh tell me about it.”

Tony makes space for the metal-armed man to sit beside him, patting the free spot.

“It’ll be the best nightclub people’s ever been invited to, I’m sure of it.”

“Keep the drinks strong and I might believe that.”

“C’mon, Tony! You’ll get along with him alright. I know you guys worked together before.”

“Yeah, exactly, that was _before._ I’ve no clue why I agree on this now.”

“You sure it’s not a nefarious tactic to recruit me back to your small army?” Bucky scoffs at him, hooking one leg under his hip.

“Do I look like I have a death wish?”

Bucky Barnes had played a crucial role in figuring out who was behind the assassination of Tony’s parents. When Obie had succeeded in the first step of his plan, he’d attempted to murder Tony next, simply to rule the underground under his command. Bucky had been the one to track the bastard and take him down. If only Steve Rogers didn’t take his precious soldier away from him upon the two’s first face-to-face encounter.

“No one in their right mind would ask for a sour Alpha to come after their head,” With a tilt of his head, Tony points to the flashy pair of blue eyes watching them. “Thank God looks don’t kill, or else I’ve been stabbed to death fifty times over since I’ve stepped my foot inside.”

“Please. Knives are my field of play, not his.”

Does he seriously look offended?

“I’ve no desire to claim otherwise,” Tony laughs.

“Just tell him you’re innocent. He won’t belive me,” Bucky insists, looking over his shoulder.

“You can’t possibly think he’ll believe _me?_”

“He ain’t gonna tell ya, but I know he’s damn glad you’re here. You should come by more often.”

“I can’t stand that guy. Remind me why I let you go live with him, _caro?_”[1]

Bucky taps the side of his neck with his index finger, the black ink of a tiny star, proud, adorns the pale skin. “You shouldn’t have hired an Omega soldier if you didn’t want to lose one.”

Under the moving lights, the mating bite glistens with all its glory, and Tony longs to see the very same sight on someone else’s skin—it’d be a magnificent sight to drink in.

It’s too much to ask for.

“It’s not my fault you’re excellent at what you do.”

“Is that why you’re here, tonight?” Bucky gives him the once-over. “You need help with somethin’?”

“Not really.”

“Somethin’s botherin’ you. I can tell.”

Tony gulps down his drink in one go.

“Y’know, there’s a cute little twink at the corner looking at your way for the last hour or so.”

“I noticed.”

“That’s _impressive_. Should I wave him a hand?”

“No,” Tony grits through his teeth, “_cazzo,_[2] Buck, you’re even more stubborn than Rogers. No wonder he was itching to get his claim on you.”

“Are you itching to get _your_ claim on a particular someone, too?”

Before Tony can think of an answer, a growl breaks in on their conversation.

“Guess that’s my cue to leave,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re determined to keep your lips sealed tonight, ain’t ya? You won’t tell me a damn thing. Knew you were mad at me for switching sides to Stevie.”

“Don’t worry, soldier. I don’t regret my decision a bit,” Tony smirks.

Bucky shoulders him playfully before he stands up. “You need to get laid, Stark. Get. Laid.”

For a pathetic moment, Tony actually considers taking up on Barnes’ offer. The sweet little thing is still eyeing him; Tony can feel the mischievous stare without directly making contact. He admires the stranger’s efforts—whoever he is, he must be desperate to get fucked senseless by an Alpha tonight. Tony has no desire to give him that.

_“Non preoccuparti, sono a posto.”_ [3]

A childish side of him has always found solace in hiding behind his mother tongue, especially to cover up things he means in earnest, but is too afraid to spell the letters out loud.

Or the things he doesn’t mean at all, in this case. He’s far from feeling okay.

Bucky shoots him one last glance before he leaves, a hint of worry clouding the ocean blue orbs. Tony watches him dive into the crowd until he’s nowhere to be seen.

_Where are you, now? Are you safe? Should I’ve sent my men after you and lose the last piece of sanity left in me with it?_

Tony shakes his head, letting out a heavy sigh. He’d be crazy to send the Winter Soldier after Peter Parker.

_I’m scared to want you. _

Tony knows too well that Bucky would do anything he asked of him, no matter the cost. He came here for that, didn’t he? To ask him for a favour, without an ounce of shame for what he wishes for.

The source of the sole force keeping the monster inside him chained is the fear of breaking a fragile heart that belongs to a ‘particular someone he wants to claim’, as Bucky cannily stated. Peter would, in no way, approve of his private life being violated, and Tony wouldn’t win his heart by losing his thrust from the very beginning.

_Are you thinking of me, too?_

*

When the credits roll over on the screen Peter kisses May goodnight and goes to bed. He’s about to turn the lights off when he notices the shiny package sitting on his desk; it’s simply too neat to belong in his messy space. He’s not very interested in what’s inside, but it’s the thought behind it that excites him the most.

The moment he thinks about that, about _him_, his lungs burn with the much-needed air to function again. Maybe, in the dead of the night, he can admit to himself how badly he longs for Mr Stark by his side, _please,_ one more time_._

He closes his eyes, trying to remember... desperately, trying to remember.

The Alpha-red eyes burning like flames, fighting for the Omega’s safety, making him his priority, carrying him in his strong arms, surrounding him with his musky scent, a hint of alchol in it, too, but still agonizingly perfect that makes Peter’s mouth water with wicked want—

The spell is broken when Peter winces at the sudden sharp pain at the tip of his finger.

A papercut, in fact.

He’s holding a tiny piece of paper between his fingers, folded in half. Inside, written a phone number.

That belongs to _TS._

* * *

[1] Dear.

[2] Shit.

[3] Don't worry. I'm fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re still here, thank you so much for following along! <3 Please know that I’ll cherish any kind of love you’ll throw in my way, with all my heart—your thoughts, kudos and comments mean the world to me! Thank you for reading! <33


	3. The Nutcracker

_It clearly is an invitation,_ Peter anticipates, whole body shivering but not cold.

Another possibility is that there’s nothing more to it other than what it is, no other gesture of _good intention_ could have been more explicit.

Peter wavers between the two alternatives like a tennis ball thrown widthwise; fast, aimless, pounding in his head. If it’s a key to a door he’d never guessed would appear in front of him, shall he take his chance and go for it? He can’t come up with an answer to such a vague question.

Except it’s not a question within his grasp: it’s just a phone number, Peter reminds himself. Not _save this number,_ or _call me if you need anything,_ nothing but the enigmatic numbers. The strong pounding in his ribcage equals to running a marathon, and the beating heart feels lorn for the finishing line is far, far away.

He turns the tiny piece between his fingers, sleepless.

He likes Mr Stark. That’s the only thing he’s certain of, beyond all question. After their slap-bang encounter the feelings are still there, alive and lurking. The Omega is sure a part of himself will never find anyone else enough of a suitable match to be mated with, and the realization of how true that notion is makes something tingle in his back, all the way down, surging and violent.

Peter returns to his undone bed with woozy legs, all the while his mind is screaming at him not to make a terrible decision—the only thing he’s supposed to not to do. He has no excuse, allows himself anyway. Just this night... just this once... needs it, more than anything.

He pulls down his shorts as he lays down on his back and takes himself in hand, a slow, lazy motion in contrast to his racing pulse. He’s hard and leaking, lost to what he’s feeling; the sense of right and wrong doesn’t hold any power against the blinding pleasure anymore, because the fire that’s building inside of him reduces every single caution to ashes.

“N-nh...”

He’s gasping for air, and sweating in the armpits when ‘slow and lazy’ turns into ‘rapid and rashful’, longing for a touch, thicker, warmer than his, that would linger on his exposed skin.

First minute in, and he’s already so close to release, so close to reach that invisible finishing line. He should be ashamed of the pace his hand jerks off to, of how tight he grips himself and just goes for it like there is no tomorrow, but he’s not. _He is not._ It’s a burning desire, uncontrolled, deep inside of him.

When it comes to the point of feeling too much, _being_ too much, he lets go of everything that’s holding him back and comes in long, white pulses over his shaking hand. It’s a high with a restless heart, and there’s no one to hold him safe when he falls, a descent cold and hollow.

In the end, the paper slips through his fingers.

So does the ‘too good to be true’ possibility.

*

_One month later_

It's impossible to avoid the unvoiced rejection; Tony’s never been known for his good coping mechanisms. If the empty bottles of scotch by his bedside table aren’t any indication, then he doesn’t know what is. The irresistible liquid takes him back to the start in each gulp, to the faded remnants of whiskey honey eyes and loose curls, lures him in even as he repeats to himself for the umpteenth time this thing needs to stop.

When in fact, he doesn’t want to stop... drinking... or whatever it is.

Eventually, he lets the housemaids do the one goddamn job they’re paid for and clean up the guest room Peter Parker had occupied in a devastatingly long time ago. The reasonable side of his brain doesn’t agree with him on the estimated timescale, but it’s not like his ‘reasonable’ side played a very active role when he rushed to save the kid—

Peter Parker is not a kid, Tony reminds himself. He’s sinfully eighteen and hit his presenting age awhile ago.

It’s the first and arguably, last fact Tony’s ever found out about him when he pitifully allowed himself to take a look at his background check, no matter how badly the urge to reach every small detail about the Omega gnawed at him.

Contrary to popular belief, not everyone is willing to give themselves up for a night with the infamous playboy. Of course Tony wouldn’t—he definitely didn’t seek for an ordinary (he’s sure nothing about Peter is ordinary by the way, far from it) one night stand. It was never his intention in the first place. The depraved beast craves for more than that, for more than what he can ever possess himself of, regardless being fully aware how wrong it is to feel this way about the young man, no matter how you slice it.

It’s wrong and besides, all the more appealing.

“Fuck,” Tony groans, running a hand through his hair.

Peter wouldn’t even consider him as _what_, a friend? Let alone a potential mate in that matter. He must be crazy as much as Tony to choose that wicked path. For what? To let someone like Tony, who’s surrounded by thousands of enemies, dirty lies, gunfires and all kinds of pitfall, ruin his life? He’s a brilliant boy. He’s brilliant, and pretty, and—

A bang on the door disrupts his inner monologue, and Tony doesn’t need to lift his head to see who it is.

“Good morning, boss,” Pepper says in a singsong voice as she all but dashes into the room. “Get your ass up, _please._ I see you haven’t bothered yourself to read any of the messages I sent you.”

“My mind stopped working after you said ‘morning’.”

In truth, it was ‘good’, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Working, really? I find it hard to believe while you look totally incapable of performing basic human functions.”

“I am... breathing? That’s gotta count for something.”

“Seriously, I don’t have time for this. _You_ don’t have time for this. There’s a charity event awaiting for your grand entrance in less than an hour.”

“Less than—what?”

“I won’t repeat myself. I know you heard me, genius. Now get up,” Pepper grasps his shoulders firmly and straightens his dead weight up in a single move.

“Rude.”

He’s swaying on his feet, just slightly.

“I know, I know. It was added on the list due to an annoying last minute call, but I think it’s good to make appearances once in a while. Do _not_ stay the after party, though. Your schedule is tight as it is.”

“I’m already having a party at the moment, you see.”

“I _see,_ Tony, and I don’t like it.”

She points at his current state with a circular motion of her finger; clothes stinky, hair dirty and as might be expected, under-eye bags. Other than binge drinking and feeling sorry for himself, he managed to do something productive meanwhile too: locking himself in the lab and tinkering with his toys—a task to focus on. It just happens to be that he often loses track of time in there and forgets to take a break and sleep, and eat, and... the list goes on.

He doesn’t acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“Tony.”

Pepper does.

She folds her arms firmly on her chest, like a barrier is put between the two before she even attempts to speak: “You know that he’s too young for you. For a man like you, who’s not just on top of the world; owns the underside of it, too. He’s inexperienced, naive, and absolutely not right for y—”

Something in her voice compels him to raise his head in a silent glare, no trace of indolence left of a moment ago. She abruptly pauses.

She should.

Tony’s sure he heard the exact same tone before—the subject of the obvious, unwarranted envy in it still refers to the same person. He doesn’t like it, not one bit.

“What's with the attitude?”

“You tell me, Tony. What’s up with _you?_ A damsel in distress, and you're all over the place it’s getting ridiculous.”

Someone needs to enunciate _who the fuck is in charge here_ to her strange expression, this time. “I'll tell you what's up with me: I’m attracted to him, Pep, for whatever goddamn reason. I’m sorry if it upsets you but I'm not going to get him out of my mind anytime soon.”

It’s a raw, straightforward answer that leaves no room for doubt, he knows what he feels. Nor argument, in Pepper’s case. Her eyes are narrowed like a wild cat’s, and she’s pursing her crimson lips in disapproval, which is a striking match to her Alpha-red eyes.

_We both know she’s not over you, and... a pretty, young Omega stealing all the attention away..._

“For the record, Peter isn’t a damsel in distress.”

She’s still breathing through her nose as she replies: “It’s all lined up, so you better get ready.”

The door slams shut, like greased lightning.

Rhodey’s words flash through his mind once again.

*

“Stop playin’ with my tutu!”

“Then stop pulling off my wig!”

The stage manager is running around the backstage, and through the messy crowd not far behind, all Peter can hear is everyone vehemently screaming and yelling at one another. The kids are always the loudest, specifically the little troublemakers Miss Romanoff trusted Peter with mentoring on this rare occasion.

He has yet to wear his costume, and according to the antique grandfather clock on the wall he sure will be late if he doesn’t hurry up soon. He feels stuck at the secretive corner he just discovered, and idly observing the scenery from up high seems to be his only escape at the moment.

“Did I make the right choice to count on you, Mr Parker?” Miss Romanoff asks, startling Peter out of his mind.

Peter turns around and, justifiably, lets his gaze wander over her appearance for she’s breathtakingly beautiful tonight: the emerald green dress covers just one of her shoulders, and reaches all the way down to her feet. It's a snug fit which lets her move around with ease, and her elegant style is topped off with a diamond serpent necklace adorning her flawless skin, a perfect choice to complete the look.

Speaking of choices.

“Definitely, ma’am,” Peter assures her.

“You have some stray hair sticking out over there.”

Peter makes a dazed sound of _oh_ as Miss Romanoff bends down to fix the situation, carrying a puff of fresh air along with her. She smells amazing when they’re this close, aesthetic, like a bouquet of roses.

She hunkers on the wooden floor next to where Peter sits cross-legged, and together they watch the anticipatory flood of people trying to find their seats, bumping into each other on their way, exchanging apologies and small smiles.

She hasn’t graced the crew with her inspirational pep talk yet; based on the turmoil going at the background it’ll probably be aimed at Romanoff’s bad life choices.

“Let me tell you a little secret,” she starts again, with a hint of teasing in her voice.

Peter waits for her to continue, trying to hide the instant curiousity.

“...I love people watching.”

They both go still, then burst out laughing, her ethereal appearance combined with her genuine laughter lights up Peter’s mood like how cherry blossoms in spring glamourize the earth. The weight of insecurities and what-ifs is lifted off his shoulders in a moment of mirth, to the level of forgetting why he was stressed out in the first place.

She keeps looking at him with a clear gratification at something she just accomplished. “It’s yet another form of art I’ve mastered.”

“No doubt about it,” Peter smiles.

There had only been one person who were able to have this effect on him, Peter thinks, even if it lasted for a very short period of time. An overwhelming rush of longing threatens to cross his safety line, and Peter tries his best to gulp down the emotional turmoil.

“You did a great job so far, I truly appreciate that.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I won’t disappoint you.”

“That’s the thing, Peter,” she says his name with such care that just, melts his heart with fondness. “Nothing you can do will ever disappoint me.”

The gratitude he feels for the love and trust his teacher showers him with is a threatening explosion that wants to be freed, like an underwater burst. Peter has always admired her since day one, without having the slighest idea she has this side to her. Soft.

“Now go and amaze everybody. I know you will.”

It happens out of his control, he finds himself in Miss Romanoff’s loving arms. It’s an amazing feeling to be hold when one needs it the most.

As it turns out, Peter received his ‘personalized’ pep talk after all.

Next thing he knows, he’s standing behind the massive, burgundy curtain with his teammates by his side, ready, present, listening to the countdown of “...three... two...”

_One._

*

It’s a beautiful harmony of elegant bodies and matching attires; the stage lighting chops round, dims out, all the while keeping the focus of the audience sharp.

Every ballet dancer has a different aura to them in relation to the characters they play at, some good, some evil, as every old tale is about. Bodies flow in the air like a magic wand creates faery stairs in its wake, so the long, flexible limbs stretch wider, onwards and upwards, to fly higher.

A series of applauses arise at each grand jump and spin, especially at the part where three kid dancers hold hands and move fluidly as a single unity, two girls and a boy who is the shortest one of them, standing in the middle. They all wear the same expression; proud, elated.

Tony isn’t very much keen on fine arts, (Pepper buys a new painting for him at every chance she gets) though he admires hard work in all shapes and forms. He’s here to fulfil his duty to provide continuance of the long-established tradition after his mother’s name. Although Tony benefited the hosting company he can’t even recall the name of with a generous amount of donation tonight, it’s his participation that gains importance most of all, so he has to.

He occupies one of the premium orchestra seats in the _David H. Koch Theater,_ and he’s able to see the stage from a perfect angle, however he’s sure the design of the massive theatre allows one to see the show from any seat.

He clearly hasn’t been paying attention enough, because it’s the sense of smell that awakens him, not his sight.

His nostrils flare with the sweet scent; fresh, peachy, light but demanding attention. He straightens up in his seat, body shifting towards the silk thread pulling him in: Peter Parker moves just a little closer to the very end of the stage, smoothly opening his arms and legs and spinning continuously, which results in a thunderous round of applause from the audience.

He’s gloriously graceful, utterly beautiful.

Tony can’t take his eyes off him, can’t stop staring, can’t move his muscles the way he’d command them to. It’s in that moment the Omega meets his gaze, and smiles at him with bright, gentle eyes—things that doesn’t take much space neither in his life nor soul.

Oh _God._

The realization crashes into him in waves; as if Tony was under water and everything was muted this whole time, unable to hear, unable to respond. Peter’s small smile is simply his lifeline, as it resurrects him back to life, revives his nerve endings, fills them in endorphins, or whatever they call for ‘happiness’.

It’s a tough battle in his neck, in his wrists, for the vibrant pulsations are persistent and antsy, and then there’s more: his ears are filled with the rapid _thump thump thumps,_ a loud cry that drowns out the last piece of sanity left in him that repeats he shouldn’t be happy, _oh he shouldn’t be,_ so why, God, why does it feel like liquid fire flowing through his veins, his airway and every single damned cell of his body—

*

_Oh,_ Peter's gasp of astonishment is lost in the chorus of clapping, yet the feeling isn't.

*

As opposed to the tremendous crowd, Tony Stark has all the access to go backstage and beyond, claiming he’s a big fan of a particular danseur and just wants to have a little chit chat with him. It’s not even an excuse at this point.

It’s crazy, and Tony is even crazier to risk it all.

“You’ve worked your asses off, now it’s time to celebrate!”

The dance crew cheers in joy, bursting with pride as they patt each other’s backs but the face Tony is searching for isn’t among them like he anticipated. He keeps on walking the long hall, hands in his pockets and glasses on for the sake of disguise, passing by a few doors with the _staff only_ sign, then comes to a stop upon finding the one he’s looking for.

Two petite figures stand on the balcony with their backs turned to him, though Tony can see them from a great angle where he stands back; a presence unknown, a shadow. He waits like a gentleman, and by that he means not _eavesdropping_—an exchange of small talk between a trainer and trainee, perhaps.

The young lady, soignée and light-footed, takes her leave shortly after, and, since the effects of his long term alcohol consumption slightly remains, Tony tries to appear as composed as he could be, casually picking up where _Peter_ left off:

“So, I was damn right to worry about your ankle.”

“Mr Stark!”

“The one and only.”

Peter lets out a shaky laugh, face wreathed in smiles. “I’ll agree with you on that—somehow you saved both my life _and_ my career.”

_I’m afraid I’m about to ruin it._

“How’s it feel to have secret admirers, now?”

“I think you’d know that better than anyone, Mr Stark.” He reaches behind himself to rest his hands on the broad marble surface, so he can support his weight.

“Still, you’re the shining star of the night,” Tony remarks, taking off the glasses. “I mean it. You were amazing out there, Pete.”

It’s a delight to see the Omega blush with wide eyes, the red creeping up his neck, blending in with the milky white—strawberry and cream. The tender skin shines with clean sweat and tiny, gold glitters: wholly a scrumptious meal Tony wants to savour from here to eternity.

“_Dico davvero,_” he gulps.

“Uh?”

“I said, ‘I really mean it.’”

“...Yeah?”

“Yes,” Tony wants him to know. “You were... scared, and. Distressed. The last time I saw you.” _Stay focused, you greedy bastard._ “And tonight, you were smiling so bright I just witnessed how it lights up the entire stage.”

He takes in the sight of the gifted danseur; young, jolly. Perfect. Only realizing now that he didn’t shoot a single glance outside since his arrival, the real scenery is right in front of him.

“I’m glad you think so, I was all keyed up since mornin’,” Peter mumbles, bringing a hand to caress the nape of his neck, faintly bending his head to the side. “I’d no idea you’d be here tonight. You must be one of the benefactors.”

It’s a common mistake for pretty much all the newly presented Omegas, and Peter is no exception when it comes to the inevitability of nature. _Talk about the scenery—_he’s baring his neck in submission right before Tony’s eyes: a subtle, inviting exposure that must be purely involuntary on his part, but doing nothing to rein back the voluntary part of _him._

“Well, it was time to revive the Maria Stark Foundation,” he says and Peter looks pleased.

“It’s awesome you’re doing good deed in your mother’s name, Mr Stark.”

“Helps me sleep at night.” Something else occurs to him then. “Aren’t you planning on hanging out with your friends, hm?”

“Uh, I thought winding down a bit by then would be more ideal. Bet it’s full of crazy people out there.”

“Bet it is. There’s always the after party anyway.”

“Exactly,” Peter smiles. “Will you stay?”

“I’m afraid not this time,” Tony says. “Got a Singapore flight right after this.”

“Oh, I see...”

“Besides you’ll most likely be busy. Lots of people gonna get in line to pat you on the back, starting with your parents.”

It was meant to be said in hopes of comfort, but the effect it has is unwished for: the frail shoulders go stiff, and there’s only silence in response, even though Peter parts his lips no words come out.

“I—fuck.” It doesn’t take more than that for him to figure it out. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“Don’t be,” Peter reassures him, kindly so, yet a sad smile ghosts over his lips as he speaks: “I live with my aunt, my only relative. She couldn’t make it tonight because of her nightshift, she’s a nurse at the central hospital in Queens.” A pause. “Sorry. I’m just bothering you with all this unnecessary talk, ain’t I,” he says, scratching his head.

He's cute in a way that Tony can't describe.

“No, not at all.”

He doesn’t want to make a move what would seem like a desperate attempt and to scare the boy away. Hell, Tony is scared himself. Scared _of_ himself. Yet still. “I left you my number, remember?”

“Then you know better than to call me a kid.”

“If I can get your number in return.”

“You could always get it without me knowing,” Peter says slowly.

It's true Tony Stark knows no boundaries when it comes to what he wants. Having access to any level of data, or to simply whatever it is he wishes for is not even a question of matter—takes merely a blink of an eye, and it's done. With Peter though, it’s not the right thing to do. Not the right way.

Tony _really,_ really wants to make it the right way when it comes to Peter.

“Surely one of the options it is, but wouldn’t give me the satisfaction I needed.”

“And you’re all about the satisfaction, Mr Stark?”

It’s a lascivious agreement on his part, blood running southwards, dick pulsating at the same time with his heartbeat, like a timebomb that’s going to explode any second.

_And I’m only a man,_ Tony doesn’t say.

*

He can’t risk it.

Peter isn’t sure what game he’s playing, here. The Alpha’s voice caresses his skin with burning flames, and he’s aware it’ll consume him whole if he gets too close. He can’t risk it.

Mr Stark wets his lips, and Peter remembers catching sight of them touching to another woman’s, a painful memory that’s imprinted on his mind forever, _which_ should be his red light to stop right here and now, a red line he shouldn’t dare to cross even in his dreamland. The man’s got a lady, and here Peter is, _blindly_ dreaming of—

“I’m all about the company,” Mr Stark says, regaining Peter’s focus to present.

_And I’m all in,_ Peter doesn’t say.

It’s somehow a more innocent way of putting it, but much dirtier all the same. The Omega tries not to think of all the ways he could keep Mr Stark company, keep him pleased at his service and—It’s the best to let the probably unintended double-entendre go aside.

“Trust me, I’d tuck you in bed first chance I got,” _oops,_ “I—I mean you look like you could u-use some s-sleep!” he stutters at the end, voice high pitched.

“_Sei divertente._”[1]

A genuine laughter lights up Mr Stark’s entire face, and even if Peter feels at ease in the moment, a secret worry consumes him as he takes a second to put all the fun and games aside. Anyone would be able to see the fatigue lines breaking through the Alpha's strong façade, if they cared enough.

Mr Stark has always been so charismatic and suave, and put together.

“I don't often get the chance to talk to someone like you,” Mr Stark admits.

“Someone like me?”

“Yes. Someone honest. Down to earth. People in my life either work for me, or against me, mostly the ones who have the potential to kill me.”

He says it so easily, and Peter wonders: “Where do I fall in this category?”

“The latter, definitely. But for a lot of different reasons.”

Peter can’t speak. He’s doing everything in his power to resist.

“Let’s say... I like how you stand up to me.”

They’re only a couple of feet apart, and Peter is drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

“You say it like nobody else can.”

“’Cause it’s true.”

“Would you like me to behave, too?”

A pathatic mistake he hears just a second too late.

“Don’t worry,” Mr Stark answers. “You’re being good.”

Peter can’t decide which is worse: his inner voice or what comes out of his mouth instead. He shivers with _heat,_ if that’s even possible, and ends up hugging his chest which, presumedly, makes him appear smaller in his space than he already is.

“Cold?” Mr Stark asks, already taking off his jacket.

“N-no,” Peter denies, but something in him starts to unfold. With a mix of anticipation and embarrassment, he adds: “No n-need to... you’ll stand there fr-freezing!”

Mr Stark silks his shoulder, seemingly not minding the cold. “I won't stay long. I just had to see you.”

_I just had to see you._

Peter grabs on the sides of the jacket that’s now nestled on his shoulders without further restraint. The warmth of Mr Stark’s body heat envelops his lithe frame perfectly, and the Alpha’s musky, earthy scent fills his lungs, an intense fragrance to bury his nose in. Peter should just excuse himself and leave with what’s left of his dignity, why can’t he?

Mr Stark’s earlier words come to mind, about ‘honesty.’

“You shouldn’t expect much when you’re carrying _that_ with you,” he points at Mr Stark’s belt where a revolver is tucked in, the brown shaft gleaming under the moonlight.

Mr Stark doesn’t answer for a moment that Peter is about to repeat himself, or worse, apologize if he went too far, _if_ he can manage to tear his gaze away from the curve of the man’s sides, now that the jacket isn’t covering it.

Peter, faintly, hears him say: “Guess you’re right about that.”

Then what looks to be millions of dollars worth beauty is thrown over the balcony into pitch-black void, God-knows-where.

“Oh my—!” Peter prevents himself from letting out a scream just in time, afraid of drawing the attention of his friends or anybody else. “Why did you do that?!”

Mr Stark grins at him, hands in his pockets. Peter wants to kiss him silly.

“Listening to your advice, kid.”

The way he says _kid._ This man. Really.

“I told you not to call me that,” he’s trying so hard to keep a straight face. “I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen.”

_Fuck._ The more he wants to prove himself to him, the more he sounds like a—_kid._ His fingers tightly clench on to the leather jacket. “An adult,” he murmurs, weak, and loses all hopes of saving what’s left of his dignity.

Nothing else is said after that. Peter waits as the silence stretches between them, his brain working full-speed trying to pinpoint the missing piece. He has a feeling Mr Stark waits for him to pick up a clue, _something._

Then it finally clicks:

“...But you already knew that.”

Mr Stark leans in, and Peter catches himself doing the same. It’s like two magnets detecting each other’s presence, and it’ll only result in them getting closer, becoming one, because it’s in their nature, something inherent.

Something Peter can’t escape of, and doesn’t want to.

He can see the blurry remnants of the redhead in his mind’s eye, but he can also feel Mr Stark’s hot exhale fanning over his face, with a tint of alcohol in it, too, making everything better than it has any right to be.

“Give me your phone,” Mr Stark tells him, low. Final.

Opening his palm towards him, waiting.

Peter doesn’t find it in himself to answer, doesn’t trust his vocal cords to do their only job properly. He feels dizzy under Mr Stark’s gaze, an iron cage, and Peter sways in his place; entrapped, off balance.

It’s too much to ask for.

Yes, he’s desparate to want this, but he promises himself he won’t go further than this. Mr Stark doesn’t belong to him, and Peter _can’t_ ask if his earlier assumptions are correct, for the fear of hearing it confirmed by the man himself—it’d hurt him, hurt him bad. Then again, he has no idea what the man sees in him.

_I just had to see you._

‘Honesty?’ He hasn’t seen the _honest_ side of Peter yet.

*

The Nutcracker performance gets Peter the admission ticket for the much anticipated gala, _The Ballet’s Grace._ Miss Romanoff reads his name from the list with a proud smile on her face, and it’s a blissful semester for Peter already. The team seem relaxed at receiving praises and positive feedback after their hardwork, and at the end everyone’s looking forward to take a wonderfully long holiday with their family and friends.

Aunt May gifts him a lovely pair of pastel blue pyjamas, telling him _soft colours look so pretty on you, baby._ Peter knows she feels guilty for not being able to watch his performance, and Peter kisses her on the cheeks, with a soothing, _thank you for always being there for me, May._ She kisses him back sweetly, and if her eyes shine distinctly visible, he doesn’t mention it.

It’s nearly two weeks later that Mr Stark texts him, his first grey bubble consisting of an apology:

_sorry it took me so long_

_it’s one thing after another_

Peter smiles. It’s a relief to finally hear from the man, and he doesn’t acknowledge if Mr Stark refers to his daily job or the night—or something personal.

_s’ok_

_but someone is eager to see you_

The reply comes instant, _let me guess. someone with brown curls?_

_no_

_someone with brown fur_

He clicks the video call, and shoves Carla forward playfully. She meows and licks the screen with her small, pink tongue when Mr Stark accepts the call; Peter would make the same greeting if he could.

It’s a cozy winter night, and Aunt May’s working late again. Peter hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast with MJ, and when he tells this to Mr Stark it’s nearly half an hour later that there’s a delivery on his doorstep: chef’s special cheeseburgers, french fries and onion rings with a handful of tasty sauces.

“Tastes very good, sir.” Peter devours everything as they keep talking, licking the spice off his fingers with a popping sound, enjoying the mouth-pleasing aftertaste, and when he gulps down the perfect vanilla milkshake he’s ever tasted, Mr Stark points to a drop of it still on the corner of his lip.

Peter sticks his tongue out, curling it sideways and giving it a fair lick to clean any remnants. “All good?”

Mr Stark watches him with an open mouth, unresponsive, and for a second Peter worries the call disconnected momentarily.

“...Yeah. It’s just.”

Peter waits.

“Guess I’m hungry, too,” he says, puffing out a breath.

A frown appears on his face, coming to a sudden realization: “The list of the things I owe you keeps getting longer.”

“No. Absolutely not, you owe me nothing. I take delight in—helping you,” Mr Stark blinks as if to shake himself out of a trance. “Trust me. I’m ravished with delight.”

Peter laughs, face softening and red on the cheeks, the sated state making him feel at ease.

They talk a bit of everything, the conversation flowing peacefully. Mr Stark doesn’t shy away from the topic whenever Peter asks a question about the infamous Mafia business of his, all confident, and he listens to Peter with great interest as well. The undivided attention makes him feel hot at places he shouldn’t—he wants to believe it’s the weight of his lavish meal, even though the feeling is far from being unpleasant.

Time passes without neither of them noticing, and it’s about three o’clock in the morning when Peter starts to yawn and tears start to drip from the corner of his eyes.

Carla pushes at his hand everytime he attempts to press the red button on the screen, and Mr Stark claims her to be a much trusted ally than any of his men working for him.

*

Peter and Carla are curled under a white throw blanket, like a snowball, snuggling into each other, asleep. They breathe in tandem, and look so cute together with their chubby cheeks pressed side by side, it’s almost unfair. Tony craves to be there, to feel the Omega’s balmy heat, to kiss at the tip of his nose, lips, chin... and slide down his neck, slow, chaste.

Having made up his mind, Tony takes a screenshot of the call and sends it to Peter with a text attached under it: “Six o’clock on Saturday.”

He’s determined to make it the right way.

* * *

[1] You're funny.


	4. The Date

By six o'clock in the evening, the classy Rolls Royce Phantom parks at the front of Peter’s small apartment in Queens. He struggles to take a clear photo while hiding behind the curtains like a lunatic, and after a few attempts he manages to send a decent one to MJ who’s still on the phone for... _1 hour and 56 minutes,_ according to Skype. She stays with her parents during the holiday for she’s absent most of the year, so Peter has called her to decide what he should wear for God knows which fancy restaurant Mr Stark’s going to take him to.

“It’s the epitome of luxury.”

“It’s a timeless beauty,” Peter agrees.

She heaves a sigh.

“I wanna ride it so bad.”

“...Yeah.” He wants to ride it so, _so_ bad. “Same here.”

He’s looking outside the window with his mouth agape, a disgraceful reaction to his graceless fantasies. If the ‘fantasy’ Peter were inside the car with the man right now he’d waste no time to bend down to the floor on his knees.

“I can practically see your mouth watering, Peter.”

“Hey! You can’t see shit.”

“It’s funny how you haven’t drooled on the carpet yet.”

“It’s the car...” Mr Stark hasn’t made an appearance yet.

“The car, _exactly_. What else did you have in mind, huh?”

“Why is he taking so long?” Peter can’t help but ask, hands resting on his chin.

“How can I know?” she asks in return. “Something must’ve come up, maybe? Maybe he’ll have to cancel the plans for tonight, and you’ll spend the night moping on your couch with a bowl of cold ramen on your lap.”

“MJ! Stop messing with me please.”

“A'ight a'ight.” She clearly enjoys her little scare tactics, isn’t she. “He’s such a wealthy dude. Lucky for you.”

“There’s nothing going on, I told you. It’s just a dinner.”

“_Date._ It’s called a dinner date. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“He’s got someone else, I’m sure of it.”

“I still don’t believe what you think you saw that day,” MJ says after a short silence. “It’s already fucked up that you’re attracted to him, but this? You should talk to him about it.”

“You know I can’t.”

There’s always been admiration from afar, which swiftly evolved into attraction once he got to know _the_ Tony Stark—not through the camera lenses, but with his own two eyes this time.

Being attracted is one thing.

The real, and alarmingly dangerous thing is that Peter is past the ‘attraction’ state. He’s not ready to voice it out loud when he barely came to terms with it himself; he’s falling in love with him. With an Alpha who’s got a lady, is the father of the long-established Mafia in the country, an infamous playboy and a compassionate man when the mask is peeled away.

“Why the hell not?”

It’s a pipe dream one might lose themselves in, oh so easily. He doesn’t want to turn to dust at the end of it, that’s why.

Her answer isn’t granted, because he sees Mr Stark finally getting out of the car and slowly making his way towards Peter’s doorstep—perfect timing.

He closes the curtains in a haste, bouncing on his feet.

“He’s comin’, he’s comin’!”

“Calm down, sweetie. You’re gonna trip over your feet,” she chuckles.

“This isn’t funny,” Peter whines, the urge to check himself in the mirror one last time is persistent.

Feeling sexy is all about feeling comfy in his book. He goes with a soft, over-sized pink hoodie and skinny jeans, clothes that he doesn’t wear too often so they don’t look washed-out for this particular occasion. According to MJ’s feedback ‘jeans’ is the best friend of every size and curve, which hugs his thighs in perfect shape: spectacularly proving her point.

“Peter? Don’t tell me you’re checking yourself out.”

“...I’m checking myself out.”

“Let me guess, for the hundredth time?”

“It’s the hair that annoys me. I cannot unsee it.”

“Hate to break this to you, but you’re having a bad hair day.”

“Uh, I know it’s not—”

“It looks cute, silly!” she chuckles again, “I’m just messing with you.”

Peter pouts his lips. “I don't find it so cute when it won't cooperate.” If he continues to stare hard to the wild, wavy curls any longer his eyes are going to pop out of his head.

“It’s gonna be _fine._”

The doorbell rings.

“My God, he’s here, he’s here!”

“Go go go,” MJ urges, her last words hinting at all kinds of smug and downright _dirty_ imaginations right before Peter ends the call: “Enjoy the meal, Parker.”

He’s excited, and scared even more so that he’ll mess this up, trapped in a state where he’s feeling impatient and not ready at the same time. His stomach is tied in knots—oh, knots shouldn’t be what he should be thinking about the Alpha—it’s the last thought he has before he opens the door anyway, and the vital organ that is supposed to pump his blood stops functioning temporarily.

“H-hey, Mr Stark,” Peter greats him.

“Hi, Peter.”

Mr Stark wears a navy grey suit over a white v-neck with a kitten printed on the front, doing wonders to his well-built shape. It’s not a see-through clothing, yet Peter can still make out the abdominal muscles under the fabric. He’s not overly muscular or the tallest in the room, he’s just so effortlessly sexy, making the Omega feel weak at the knees, clueless.

“Is that a _Carla_ reference I see?”

“Oh, this? Well, yes. Gotta please the Queen, show her some love.”

Mr Stark smiles at him behind his blue-tinted glasses, and it’s impossible not to spot the tense lines around the edges.

Peter wants to erase them, make them disappear. He smiles back at him. “I think she appreciates the thought.”

The camouflage could work on anyone, _not on me._ If anything, the lack of direct eye contact is just another indication of something being entirely wrong, since Mr Stark didn’t take them off like he usually does around Peter.

“I’m not sure if I am underdressed or not.”

That earns him another smile. “You’re amazing, and your looks is the last thing you should worry about.”

“Thanks, um.” Mr Stark is kind as always.

“No need to thank me.”

Through the blue lenses, it doesn’t go unnoticed how his eyes travel over Peter’s appearance as well. The one-month separation hasn’t changed anything; it’s ten times worse tonight.

“I wasn’t sure, ‘cause I don’t know where you’ll take me,” he admits.

He feels naked under the man’s torturously slow gaze roving over him, and Peter’s neck tingles with helpless anticipation. It’s a strong sensation one can’t resist: to grab at the curve of his neck and feel the sting of his nails digging in, so he does.

“I,” The Alpha stares at where Peter’s hand is. He looks... distracted. “I’ll take you.”

“Take me?”

“_Yes._”

“Where?” he asks, chest heaving.

“Anywa—anywhere you want to,” Mr Stark clears his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “But tonight, we’re going to a place a friend of mine highly recommended to me. She’s a gourmet cook.”

“That’s cool.”

“You ready to go?”

“Y-yeah. Let me grab my coat.”

“Sure.”

It’s blissfully just the two of them as they get in the car, no chauffeur nor bodyguard in a black suit accompanying them.

His relief doesn’t go unnoticed. “I thought you’d feel more at ease this way.”

“I am,” Peter assures him, yet a feeling pokes at his chest as he tries to explain: “I’m not used to any of this. I mean... I don’t like the idea of a bunch of stone-faced men following our every step behind, as if there’s a bomb that’s gonna explode in our faces.”

“It’s not quite a bomb, but...” Mr Stark falters for a moment, a sight that doesn’t match with his confident looks, “not a situation I’d want you to participate in, either.”

So... it’s not the hair.

“What is it?” Peter swallows. The lump in his throat won’t go away until he hears what Mr Stark has to say.

“I got a last minute call right before picking you up.”

He takes off the glasses, turning towards him. The worry lines, deep, form on his forehead. “There’s a noisy ex-client I need to take care of, I’m afraid to say.”

Oh.

“Should we postpone the plans for another day?” _God, please don’t let MJ’s horrible jokes become true._

“No, definitely not. I’ll be quick to fix it.”

Hearing that, the fidgeting of his fingers stop, which he wasn’t aware of until now, and Peter relaxes in his seat.

“It’s alright, Mr Stark. I’ll come with you and wait ‘till you’re done.”

Mr Stark does something unexpected then, he _laughs. _It’s a soft rumble of his chest, and a fond shake of his head.

“_Ascoltami, tesoro mio._[1] I’m sorry for ruining the night before it even had a chance to start, but you’ll most likely loose your appetite if you choose to come with me.”

That’s where the problem lies, then.

“I... I don’t believe you’ll hurt anyone unless they deserve it, sir.”

“If it’s a way to convince me to let you come, it won’t work.”

“So what, you’re going to drop me in the middle of nowhere?”

“’Course not,” Mr Stark’s lips twitch, seemingly despite himself.

“That leaves us no other option. I’ll come with you.”

“No you’re not.”

“I _am_ coming with you.”

They lock gazes with each other for a brief silence, unmoving, and unyielding. In his peripheral vision, the sky has gotten darker, aside from the street lamps’ lighting.

“I would like to see anyone try and say no to that face.”

“What face?”

“The face you’re making right now. The puppy eyes. Looks cute on you.”

“I’m not _making—_” _This is no time to get shy,_ Peter reminds himself. “Well, maybe I am. Does it work on you?”

He doesn’t get an answer to that.

“He’s an ‘ex’ for a reason, Peter,” Mr Stark warns him. “He doesn’t work for me anymore, which positively makes him a potential enemy of mine, even if he wasn’t before.”

“I’ll wait in the car, I promise.” He doesn’t listen to what the man has to say; Peter already made up his mind. “If it’s dangerous that much, I don’t want you to go there all alone.”

“How come the little lamb worries about the big bad wolf?”

Mr Stark’s hand reaches towards him, an affectionate caress that feels so good Peter shudders inside.

“You’re not the bad guy here,” he says quietly.

“I’m the worst, and I don’t need you to witness that part of me.”

Peter wants to lean into the touch, wants to let the warm fingertips sink into the messy curls of his. From the way Mr Stark is taking his time, he doesn’t find anything wrong with it like Peter has since the morning: in fact, he’s treating it like he’s discovered the world's richest silk.

“But that’s besides the point,” Mr Stark says, gaze darkening. “I’ll be fine. It’s you I am worried about.”

“I don’t have to worry about anything else when I’m around you, so don’t,” Peter doesn’t shy away from the bare truth, only because Mr Stark deserves to know. “Don’t worry ‘bout me.” It feels like his neck’s going to loose it’s coordination, and balance; the desire to get freed of gravity and be hold upright by solely the man’s grip is overwhelming.

“Around me is where you’re supposed to feel in danger the most.”

A softly devastating utterance, and with that he retreats his hand back, holding onto the wheel now—too soon for Peter’s liking.

The lost of warmth shakes him like a bucket of ice-water thrown all over him—he’s determined to persuade him no matter what.

“Please, sir, please.”

He waits until he turns to look at him again, and upon seeing the conflicted battle in those dark orbs, a glimpse of triumph unfolds within Peter’s chest.

“I promise I’ll be good, sir. I... Please.”_ Please let me._

He hears Mr Stark mumble under his breath, his fingers tightening around where they are rested. “Christ, kid.”

The engine purrs to life, and the joy of victory surpasses the fond annoyance of being called a ‘kid’ this time. He can let it go aside if it means he’ll get to stay by the Alpha’s side.

*

Unlike Peter expected, it’s not a short trip to where they’re headed, and he wonders if they’ll make it to tonight’s reservation on time. Peter doubts there’s a single soul on earth that would dare to reject the man anything he desired, whether it be the long lost _Semper Augustus_, or more of a material pleasure like the _History Supreme,_ or an urge just as primitive if not material: sex.

They’re parked right outside the garage of an abandoned building, and when he bends his neck Peter can see the high, triangular roof with missing shingles, or what’s left of it anyway. The walls are covered in soot from a long time ago, most likely the remnants of a fire damage. The windows are not much better; tainted, otherwise broken. The overall picture shows no sign of life.

Mr Stark makes a quick tip-tap on his phone screen, and for the time being Peter doesn’t bother him. Eventually, the so called ‘ex-client’ comes into the scene.

“Weird,” Peter comments, brows drawing together. “He looks familiar to me.”

A look of puzzlement crosses Mr Stark’s face.

“Are you sure?”

A shake of head. Negative. “I don't know from where.” He peers at the tall and lanky man once again.

Could it be...

“That’s impossible,” Mr Stark says, with a tone that suggests he’d rather it _be_ impossible. “Unless you’ve interacted with him before.”

“I don’t really know, it’s just.” The odds are Mr Stark’s either going to take a u-turn and drive them away from here, or worse: he’s going to drive _over_ the stranger opposite them in full-speed. “I, uh, nevermind. I must’ve confused him with someone else.”

“That’s good. As if I need another reason to get rid of this man.”

A nervous laugh escapes from Peter’s lips.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to him tonight though,” Mr Stark continues, reaching for the door handle. “We’ve got a dinner to catch on, and I can’t think straight when I’m hungry. He’ll have to make do with an earful for now.”

“Hm, last I’ve heard the wolf was so hungry he ate a nanny, so he better be careful this time.”

“I’m always careful,” Mr Stark tells him, eyes crinkling at the corners, making Peter’s heart skip a beat. “I’ll be back in a minute. Remember, just don’t do anything I would do—and definitely don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Wha—What does that even _mean?_”

“It means... stay in the car.”

Peter watches him leave, feeling uneasy regardless of the assurances which where so difficult to believe in this line of business. He’s not naive, nor is he turning a blind eye to the world Mr Stark lives in. Rules over. He wants to be a part of it, get used to the atmosphere—no matter how deadly cold it is.

The tinted glasses of the Phantom have its several benefits; he’s able to spectate the meeting while no one can tell there’s a third company present with them. It’s a relief of some shorts, if he tries hard to find one. It’s a relief, also... a stressful task to watch Mr Stark from afar and not stand next to him instead. _Stay in the car._ There are millions of possible outcomes running through his head, and none of them are pleasant.

An ugly smirk forms on the stranger’s lips, talking around a toothpick, his hands in his pockets. As minutes pass, his face becomes white as a sheet, yet his manners resemble one who has a death wish.

_Stay in the car._

They stand at a respectful distance from each other—the dialogue is anything but, Peter decides, from the way Mr Stark throws his hands in the air, seemingly frustrated. He has no way of hearing what is being said, yet he can faintly hear the rumble of the thunder above. He bites at his lips in worry.

_It’d be handy to learn a few tricks about lipreading, Parker._

_Stay in the car._

_Stay—_

Both parties get close and—the argument takes a physical form of hands reaching for belts, and on a blind impulse Peter finds himself getting out of the car so fast he bumps his head. _Ouch._

The man looks at him strangely soon as he sets his foot outside the car, and he’s next to the Alpha in a second.

“I didn’t know we had company. What a...” the smug grin makes the lines around his mouth deepen, “surprise.”

Does he...? By any chance...?

“He’s no—“

“I’m his protégé,” Peter blurts out before Mr Stark could. _Let him believe._

“A protégé?” the man repeats, head tilting to the side. “That’s interesting.” _If not believable,_ he sounds. Fuck. “Since when?”

Peter can’t help but glance sideways at Mr Stark. His expression is hard to read.

“I—“

“Let’s go,” An insisting hand on his back urges him to move. “We’re done here.”

“We’ve just started, Mr Stark. What’s the rush?”

There’s no reply or a cunning remark in return, only a stone-cold expression on Mr Stark’s behalf. He’s laser focused on Peter. His movements are quick and practical as he hurries them to the car.

“Is everything okay?” Peter murmurs into Mr Stark’s ear, a tendril of uneasiness creeping into his voice.

“It’d be if you—“

From the corner of his eye, Peter sees the man scent the air in a sickingly deep breath, and then:

“_Mellifluo._”

One word.

They stop where they are.

Or, Mr Stark stops and Peter follows suit.

One word, and the shift in the air is palpable, similar to a heavy rain cloud, ready to burst.

_“Sei un ostinato figlio di puttana.”_[2]

Mr Stark takes a step forward. The hand that was supporting his back now urges him to stay behind, and the clear panic can be heard through his actions, if his voice isn’t a proof on its own already: _can’t you follow a simple order, Parker?_

“Calm down, Mr Stark, calm down.”

The man throws his hands in the air as if in surrender, a pathetic sign he’s no kinds of threat to them. Still, the sharp look on his face doesn’t make him seem innocent or convincing. “I’m by no means after him.”

It’s a great effort to keep his breathing even.

“I’m after your goods.”

“And I precisely stated that you’re _by no means_ capable of providing or using them,” Mr Stark spits the words like they’re venom. “This is my last warning to you. Keep up this idiocy of yours next time, and see what _I_ am after, which you won’t like at all.”

Peter clenches on Mr Stark’s arm, unaware of how close they stood next to each other until now.

“Next time.” The stranger nods to himself, eyeing the Omega from the corner of his eye. “Understood.”

“You heard me. Now scram.”

The tight knot that has settled in Peter’s stomach for hours is finally loose as the unwanted company leaves in a set of careful steps backwards. And later, an old engine sound in the distance.

Silence.

Peter turns to look at Mr Stark again.

_Mellifluo._ A single word was enough to make the Alpha fly into a rage. And later: _I’m by no means after him._ That man knew which buttons to push, and when to retreat back, if he managed to get off in one piece after what happened.

“I didn’t quite understand what he meant by _that_,” he frowns. “Is Italian the language of your business?” No answer. “I should start learning the basics.”

The silence stretches. He expected as much.

Actually, he prepared himself for a furious yelling alongside some Italian swearings, even a punishment depending on how upset the man is with him, and he would _take it—_just anything that would remind Peter _why he should’ve stayed in the car._

He jerks away. “Huh?”

“I asked, should I list all the reasons why you should’ve stayed in the car?”

“N-no, sir. I remember—“

“Because _I_ remember you promised me.”

“I did.”

“So where this reckless act came from?”

“I.” _Can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt. _“I was scared when he got too close to you.”

Mr Stark’s features doesn’t soften, and the set of his shoulders is stiff. By some miracle, he doesn’t protest at the shy touch Peter has on his upper arm, like a safe line.

“Nothing would’ve happened. Nothing did,” he says. “But something could’ve happened to_ you_. Don’t you get it?”

“Nothing would’ve happened, yes.” Peter claps the words back to him in full force. “Nothing in the slighest when I’m around you.”

“Are you seriously—“ Mr Stark pursues his lips. “_Peter._ Don't you get what is at stake here?” He’s breathing through his nose, and his left hand is visibly trembling: he’s having a hard time trying to keep his anger at bay. “I shouldn’t have allowed you to come with me.”

“M-Mr Stark—”

“He shouldn’t have seen you, dammit.”

“Mr Stark,” Peter tries again, voice an octave higher, a futile attempt at keeping calm.

“I’ll kill him. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. He won’t see the light of day, gonna make sure of it.”

“Mr Stark! Please.”

Peter’s fingers tighten around the strained muscles, near to squeezing. That seems to slow things down a little.

If they weren’t connected by a mere touch, Mr Stark would pace back and forth for sure, or worse: get in the car and chase the man after to kill him in cold blood. Peter is not—he should be, God, he should be, but he’s not scared—it feels good to know the man doesn’t let go of his touch.

“Don’t be angry at me. I... I couldn’t help it, even if I wanted to. I,” a shaky exhale, “I just wanted to be a part of your world.”

He doesn’t realize his eyes are clenched shut until he reopens them to the feel of feathery lips connecting with his forehead, smoothing the horizontal lines.

His face is currently rested between Mr Stark’s hands.

“I could never be angry at you, _tesoro._ I’m just trying to decide whether I should rip his head off or hang him by the balls next time I see him.”

“_Ew._”

“I’m being too easy on him. That’s ‘cause he’s got a family, you know? A wife and a daughter around your age. Just a sad case, that man. Took pity on him.”

“Then please—don’t go after him,” Peter pleas. “Let’s go,” he offers.

Mr Stark shakes his head, his eyes look down before meeting his gaze again.

Peter searches his face for an answer: the remnants of Alpha red shine through the pitch black, and something else.

“The lucky bastard. He’s got no idea who’s saving his ass this time.”

“I’m perfectly capable of holding my own, by the way. I’d kick his ass if it came down to that. I’ve got some moves.”

“Not the best distraction I could hope for.”

“Oh,” Peter realizes.

“You can protect yourself. You just don’t know from who.”

“And you do? You feel like you can protect me from everything, Mr Stark?”

He has to make him understand. He has to.

“I hate to say it.”

Peter tries to find a way to soothe his anger, to reassure him, if not with the kisses, then...

“So don’t. Just _listen._”

He grabs the hands palming his reddened cheeks, and repositions them over his chest, a little left, right above his heart where it beats just a tad faster.

Firm, solid. “Can you feel this?”

Mr Stark stills.

“I meant every word when I said I trusted you. Now it’s your turn to trust me when I say...” a tender smile forms on his lips, “that I’m okay. I’m safe.”

The Alpha’s wrath fades away, the rapid breaths wind down. Every little detail that comes with the warm proximity of two bodies is out there open like a book; they’re so close their foreheads are almost touching, and it’s a pure relief when the trembling of Mr Stark’s left hand stops finally.

It feels like the world itself stops momentarly, and Peter utters a soft, “I’m safe,” into the silence between them.

It feels nice, feels perfect, and if there is one thing both movies and reality have in common, it’s the fact that moments like this never last long.

“Now... it’s your turn to come into my world.”

Maybe for once, things could change.

*

The warmth of the Omega creates a tingling sensation starting at his fingertips and spreading from there, consumes Tony’s whole existence and paints it in fervent red.

_Listen._

It’s Peter, it’s his heartbeat, his warmth, his scent, his voice, _him._ He’s here, he’s safe, and _that_ is where it all started from the very beginning and what it will always come down to in the end: Peter’s safety.

Peter shakes him out of his trance. “We’re late to the dinner.”

Tony, involuntarily, takes a step backwards and untangles the hold Peter has on him. “...Right. I can call and arrange a new—“

“There’s no need to,” Peter interrupts him. “I have something else on my mind.” His eyes shine mischivous as he says it.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Forget the giant tables, major wine lists and multitalented chefs, forget everything you made sure to set up. Ha! I know you did!”

“So what if I did?” It’s just a three Michelin star chef, and a marvellous view of New York City, there’s nothing extraordinary. “You deserve only the best.”

“Thank you, Mr Stark, it means a lot, but,” a splash of red adorns his cheeks, “what about we stick to cheap and cheerful this time?”

_Don’t you know by now that I'd do anything you say, anyway?_

“Lead the way, Pete.”

As a _thank you,_ Peter’s smile turns into an excited grin, and the world becomes a brighter, lighter place to exist in.

*

“It’s greasy.”

“It’s delicious,” Peter moans, taking another large bite of hot, crispy pizza. He has probably burned the roof of his mouth five times so far. The long thread of mozerella dangles from the corner of his lip, which is both funny and... adorable. “Look who’s talkin’! You wiped your plate clean! By that I meant your third plate.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t delicious,” Tony protests around a mouthful. Peter laughs.

“I told you I was hungry, didn’t I?”

*

“Tissue, Mr Stark, please,” Peter sobs.

Tony wastes no time to hand him one, while another pack is resting ready on his lap since the boy devours them scene after scene. “I’m not so sure this was a good idea, kid.”

“Wait.”

Peter turns towards him, blinking. His nose is red and puffy from all the sniffing. “You don’t have fun?”

Tony brings a hand to wipe at his cheek, loving the feel of the smooth skin. The light coming off from the silver screen illuminates the side of his face, and Tony is... well, to say ‘easily distracted’ would be an understatement.

“It’s fun.”

Peter keeps staring at him.

“It really _is_,” he assures, “except I don’t like it when this pretty face is in tears.”

“Um. It’s stress relieving.”

Peter gulps his milkshake, holding the damp tissue with his other hand, then stracthes at his nose again, causing a reddish spot to form over the sensitive area in milliseconds. Yes, this too, is adorable.

“I just can’t believe they’re gonna build a Titanic II after this film,” Peter weeps, just as an old lady seated behind them makes an irritated _‘hush’._

“Keep quiet, young man.” Then, she points a finger at Tony’s lap, covered in a little mound of tissue. “Oh, can I get one please?”

*

The streets appear a blur to them, cold winter air licking at their faces as Tony increases the driving speed, limitless.

“I love Led Zeppelin!” Peter yells out, hanging his head out of the car window.

“It’s not—“

“Hey slow down slow down! Take a turn right!”

Tony does, lifting his foot off the gas, searching for... great, there's a parking space right around the corner of a closed deli.

Now he’s simply curious.

“Seems like this is our next stop.”

“This is totally spontaneous and I’m lovin’ it,” Peter chirps. “I just saw a whole bunch of people dancing around fire! It looks super fun, Mr Stark! We should join them!”

And _join_ they did.

Together they walk down the dark alley guided by poor street lamps. The closer they get the louder the laughter echos, and before they know it, they find themselves in the midst of a jovial crowd.

A young girl comes to greet them in no time, proudly showing off her street style—the 2000s.

“Welcome, my dudes! It’s a free spirited gatherin’, with free booze. Enjoy!”

“Bonfire!” Peter cheers, eyes tranced on far ahead.

“Yeah, right?” The girl smiles. “There’s gonna be a fireworks show, so stick around!”

“Thanks! We will!”

“C’mon, this way.”

Tony takes his hand in a safe grip, and passes through a group of masked people wearing costumes, wetting themselves in alcohol.

“Whoa!” Peter’s little gasp of delight is everything. “It’s awesome, Mr Stark!” He lets go of Tony’s hand, seemingly wanting to be closer to the fire as cautiously as he can manage. “Look!”

He _is._

Looking.

He stands close enough to touch at Peter’s cheek again, this time it’s the hot orange of bonfire illuminating his elegant features.

“...Mr Stark?”

Tony blinks.

“Sorry, kid. What did you say?”

“I said I wanna drink.”

“Are you sure? I’m not the one to judge, obviously—“

“I am sure,” Peter says, taking a step closer, hands behind his back. Biting at his lip. “I wanna drink, and dance with you.”

He’s looking at him with huge, honey-brown eyes of his. Expectant. It’s hard to distinguish the shade of blush adorning his skin when it’s already sparkling in burnt orange.

At the back of his mind, a voice whispers to him how close he’s standing to the flames.

Tony casts a glance over his shoulder; people are dancing around the fire, jumping, turning, spinning, and the ones who don’t are either gathered around a circle to watch the artistic dance moves with interest, or making out in corners where there are almost little to no lighting.

“My only concern is...” _okay there’s a hell lot_, “what’s inside this so called booze.”

“It’s nasty that’s why you drink it.”

“Not the advice I hear from Pepper all the time,” Tony says, playful, knowing himself to be giving in.

“C’mon now, Mr Stark! ‘S gonna be lotta fun!”

It’s Peter who attempts to hold hands this time, and the touch makes the beast inside him purr in appreciation. He leads the way, bouncing on his feet, and soon they are just another pair of dancing figures finding their way into the heart of the crowd.

*

In nearly two hours, Tony finds out a new fact about the Omega: he can't hold his liquor unlike he’d insisted, can’t stand on his own feet, trusting Tony to keep him upright and secure as they dance to the music. Since he stumbled upon his own feet twice, Tony grabbed his waist in a moment of caution and now he’s holding him even closer.

He spins Peter around and catches him in his arms again, encouraging and praising him, relishing in his laughter and joy. He’s an adorable doll swinging in the air, giving all the strings to his owner, giving all the control, like the good, obedient Omega that he is. He’d take anything Tony would give to him, give anything asked of him, eager to please any and every twisted, sick desire Tony’s dreamt of and more—

*

“Who’s Pepper?” Peter asks, giggling.

Tony needs a moment to think.

Pepper? “Pepper? Well... She’s—“

“Wait wait wait. Don’t tell me,” he holds up a finger, giggling yet again. “Let’s dance some more!”

*

After the bonfire comes the fireworks show, and during the whole thing Peter gazes at the sky with a lax smile on his face, pressing his back on Tony’s chest, humming softly to himself, faintly. He’s light like a flower and smells like one, too, sweet and alluring. It’s easy to hold him close, a warm body that feels fit and compact in his embrace.

“I feel...” A hiccup.

“Hm?”

“I feel a lil’ tipsy...”

“A little?”

“Yeah.” An uncoordinated nod. “Jus’ a lil’.”

“Alright, kid. I’ll make sure to take you home by ten.”

“Mr Stark...” The words come out slurry, and Tony’s never liked the sound of his name more than at this moment. “’S already past midnight.”

“Damn,” he laughs. He’s starting to feel a little tipsy himself. “Drunk _and_ late. Would your aunt nag you about it?”

“Mm... nope. But I feel so tired... and sleepy...”

A little yawn, and his head falls onto Tony’s shoulder with a soft bump.

“Let’s call it a night then,” he decides, palms sweaty, itching to run through the soft curls one more.

There’s no response from the kid, so with a tight grip by the knees and back Tony carries him all the way down to where they parked.

It’s a quiet drive to Peter’s apartment, except the gentle _tip-taps_ the rain makes on the glass, also making the road sloppier and everything more peaceful.

He finds what he needs in Peter’s pocket and steps inside. There’s no response coming from the hallway: no one inside. Good.

Peter’s room is easy to find by his scent alone, and when he places the lithe frame on the comfortably familiar sheets, Peter’s breath hitches.

“Ssh. _Ssh._”

“...Stark? ...you here?”

_“Certo che sono qui, tesoro.”_ [3]

Peter mumbles incoherent.

Tony shushes him. “Go to sleep, Peter.”

He presses a light kiss to his forehead, can’t help it. If it lasts a few seconds longer than it should be, no one would ever know. If he just happens to breathe in the scent of him before he parts away, that is his secret to keep.

He turns to leave.

_Dab._

It’s Tony whose breath hitches, this time.

Peter attempts to grab at his hand again; it’s barely a caress of fingertips, really. Enough to stop him.

He turns around.

Peter’s eyes are half-lidded, unfocused and pleading. “...please.”

A sudden heat crawls up the Alpha’s skin, like needles, awakening every single nerve.

A soft noise, a shift in the mattress. “Please.”

It’s unmistakable this time. He just doesn’t know what is it Peter pleas for.

His cheeks are flushed, and Tony caresses them. Tonight he’s breaking a lot of rules; he’d promised himself to go slow—_to make it right—_

“Please.”

Tony crunches down on his knees by his bedside. This close, he can smell the cheap alcohol on his breath. It only serves for the heat to boil in the pit of his stomach, redhot.

“Please what?”

In the dead of the night, it is funny how they speak in voices hushed and secretive, even though there is no one to listen in their conversation.

The things they could do, at this very moment. Tony, could do. To him.

He won’t.

Instead, he waits, and when it seems like nothing’s going to come out of those parted lips, he hears:

“Stay.”

_Please, sir, please._ Peter had pleaded him. _I promise I’ll be good, sir. I... Please. _

They had both seen what happened when Tony gave in to his pleas. _This is a much worse idea when compared, _Tony considers, because he is the most dangerous, greedy creature out there he can ever think of.

_Please._

Is he really the bad man in this situation? When there is a sleeping beauty trying to keep his eyes open through long, curly lashes fanned over his cheeks, kindly, tenderly asking for him to—

_Stay._

_“Ho un debole per te,”_[4] Tony grunts, taking off his jacket and shoes to get in the bed, after putting his wallet and gun on the bedside table—safety on, just in case—next to where the keys are.

Peter cuddles into his chest as soon as he is settled. “M-mh...”

The unstoppable heat consumes him whole, as if a sparkly globe radiates warmth into the core of his very being, too powerful to rein it in.

“Ssh... m’here...”

Rain pours down the windows; the neighbourhood is dark and silent. The only source of light is provided by a trace of moonlight, pearly and hidden, just like how the sweet Omega scent is engraved at every turn and corner of this place; encompassing, enticing. Beside him Peter is lost in a deep slumber, unaware of the devil he invited in his bed.

He meets his hands behind his head and looks at the ceiling.

_I just wanted to be a part of your world,_ Peter had said to him.

_Even before I knew, you’ve become the center of my universe,_ is what he should’ve got in reply.

Soon he will.

* * *

[1] Listen to me, sweetheart.

[2] You are one persistent son of a bitch.

[3] Of course I'm here, sweetheart.

[4] I’m weak for you.


	5. The Gift

The sheets are warm and tangled between Peter’s feet as he blinks his eyes open to consciousness. There is not much to see other than the muddling colours of dawn shining through his messy room, and the colours remain visible behind his shut lids.

The solid weight of the Alpha radiates a pleasant warmth all over his back, with a muscled arm dropped over his chest and lips that won’t quit nibbing at the skin behind his ear where he’s skittish. Peter wills his mouth to speak; he’s in a state of flow where the concept of language dissolves into molecules and changes shape to liquid senses. He can’t do much else other than to feel and hear around him, and it’s the Alpha all around him, everywhere, it’s—

_Mr Stark._

It’s Mr Stark, here and real, giving Peter what he has wanted all along, wonderfully cocooned in the Omega’s nest after countless nights of loneliness, flushed against all lines and curves of Peter’s with his own. He is gently biting at Peter’s sleep-warm flesh, alternating between his earlobe and the nape of his neck, and he’s making these low grunts of contentment without a care in the world, just feeling him. It’s so soft and sweet the Omega melts inside, except that he is also hardening in places where he isn’t supposed to, _is he really not supposed to?_ He shifts, barely, and the corners of his mouth curves into a lax smile. Mr Stark is awake after all, parts of him already responding.

“Morning, beautiful.”

“H-hey...” Throat sore and limbs numb, he feels debauched, hangover horniness a dull ache that remains from yesterday. He presses back against the hard bulge over and over, short, sensuous thrusts quickening in no time, turning to something shameless and far from grace. “I... Can I...”

“You’re asking me?”

_Please, please, please._ He keeps rocking against Mr Stark’s dick, up and down, back and forth. It’s all hazy, and it feels so good he squirms in Mr Stark’s hold. “N-nh...”

“If you want this bad you gotta tell me.”

A shudder goes up Peter’s spine, and like a snake responding to its charmer his body curls in a ‘s’ shape of its own accord. “Y-yes.”

“Need me to spank this ass, boy? Put you on a leash, so you know your damn place? Where are your manners?”

“S-sorry, sir...”

“That’s better. Now try again.”

“Want it, sir.”

“You know what to do.”

Peter whimpers.

“Ask for it,” comes the deep rumble. “Beg for it.”

Peter buries his face in the pillow and Mr Stark’s lips chase after him, teeth gnawing at his jugular with the threat of tearing the tender skin. It’s a reeling realization how much he wants this; he’s going to beg if that’s what it takes—he can’t believe this is _actually_ happening.

“Please,” Peter says with a muffled sound and salivates to the cotton fabric, jaw hanging loosely.

“U-uh. Can’t hear you.”

“Please, sir. Want it so much,” he sobs, “w-wanted—needed you in me since yesterday!”

A fat drop rolls down his flushed cheek, and the Alpha is quick to catch it with his tongue. As if indulging himself in Peter’s agony was all Mr Stark needed: “That’s it,” he grunts. “Go for it.”

Peter complies with another choked sob, of gratitude this time, and lets the man taste the salt and sweat on his skin. Mr Stark feels hot and heavy behind him, meeting Peter’s thrusts with full measure and Peter’s hole salaciously tightens and loosens to the creamy grinding of their hips. Mr Stark spills out a dozen of foreign phrases right into his ear that he can’t figure out the meaning of—he can’t get it, yet inside his muddy mind those are declarations of love and affection meant for him, only him and nobody else.

Then there is the ‘body language’ he can perfectly understand: the slide of Mr Stark’s hard-on between his asscheeks is unforgiving, animalistic and _incredible_.

“Tell me when you’re close.”

“I...” Eyes shut, he reaches a hand behind. Searching. The palm that lands on the man’s cheek is slippery with sweat, and his nails dig in the sharp texture of his goatee. “‘m close.”

“Naughty.” Mr Stark turns his head to nip at Peter’s fingertips this time, the continous threat of his teeth is an electrifying rush coursing through Peter’s body. “Naughty boy. You were beggin’ so sweet last night, looked like a sin. Wondered all night what you’d taste like.”

“H-hn...”

He tries to remember, and comes up with nothing but the foggy images of their shared time. It’s all hot and fumy around him.

Mr Stark doesn’t sound like he minds as he chuckles: “All of it for me to stay,” as he whispers filth, desire and heat: “when I could’ve just taken you apart, tasted your insides and wrecked you to pieces and put you back together again. And repeat.”

The thought is honey-sweet, and Peter’s tongue darts out to trace the aftertaste. “Please, just, _please_,” he pants, pace building and building and—

“Think you earned it?”

Quick as a flash, Mr Stark flips him on his back and holds his hands above his head, an unmerciful cage locking him in place.

“No!” Peter croaks. “No no no _no_—” He struggles to get free and miserably fails. An Omega is no match to an Alpha, neither in strength nor speed.

He’s shedding tears at this point, trying to chase after the pleasure he’s being denied, it hurts and it hurts everywhere and why is Mr Stark _playing_ with him—

“Stop tormenting me.”

“You’re one to talk.” He’s lowering himself on Peter, but not quite. Teasing him. “So, so naughty...”

“So _cruel._”

Mr Stark tuts, though he’s smirking. “Does it hurt? Feel the stinging pain yet?”

“Hurts,” Peter mewls lewdly.

The smirk grows sharper. “Look _at_ you. A cat in heat would have much dignity than you do.”

Peter can’t feel warmer than this, this burning, smouldering fire, and because he feels bold and stupid: “Cats get fucked, and pregnant. Will you fuck me?”

A curt shake of his head.

“_Why?_” Peter cries.

“This is how I felt for all this time you kept me waiting.”

Oh... What...

“...Please.”

“You don’t even know what you’re begging for.”

“Please, please I don’t care. Need you.”

Mr Stark’s mouth is inches away from his groin, and Peter’s wearing... clothes, something... he can’t look down. He wants this, he can’t fathom any coherent thought other than this, other than _just take me_. Is this how a heat supposed to make him feel?

It’s so far the only thought he has before Mr Stark swears: “Can’t deny you a damn thing,” and leans all the way down to press an open-mouthed kiss at Peter’s clothed dick, sucking it with sultry wetness and devouring him with an experienced tongue—and pleasure shakes Peter to the core, bringing him release like a fresh spray of water pouring down his fervid skin and he finally, _truly_ opens his eyes to the surroundings around him: it’s disorienting, and it’s empty.

He’s alone in his bed.

It’s morning, sunshine and all, and there’s a cacophony of sounds coming from the next door. Probably a construction work in process, which does not help the drumming headache he has. Peter wants to cover his ears and hide under the blanket. Disappear.

He’s alone, and cold.

It felt so real—an alternative reality framed in a lucid dream. He looks down to see the mess he’s made all over himself, and he doesn’t need to reach down and back to see how slick he is; it’s already running down his thighs in a thin thread. He’s not in Heat. He won’t be until the Spring. If he finds a desirable match, that is. And if he already has found one... it means nothing.

Mr Stark has left.

A fraction of musky scent is what he grants Peter with in his absence, and while Peter curses with a wobbled lip and rushes to collect himself the Omega feels cold and lovelorn, and it’s in that moment he finally gives up altogether and starts to cry.

For real this time.

*

He tosses and turns on the bed, afraid to go back to sleep. Mr Stark’s warmth is long gone but his smell is everywhere, under the tip of his nose, his palms, his fingerholds, a painful reminder of what he’s lost, and a solid proof of last night’s events, too.

God, he was stupid. Drunk stupid.

It’s not until later that he spots a cup of water along with a small pill—and a note on his nightstand that reads:

_Take care until I get back —TS_

*

He doesn’t take care of himself like Mr Stark asked of him, but it’s not like Peter promised him anything. Hours pass and he can’t help feeling vulnerable, like something is not right, like something is missing. The dream leaves his body exposed, open to outside impulses and danger, and the Omega is scared to leave his nest. He must have been fainted at some point for his vision becomes blurred and eventually soot black.

When his eyelashes flutter open, it’s to see Aunt May putting a shaky hand over her chest and breathing hard. “...heard me. Oh, thank God... Peter...”

“May...” His throat feels scratchy as he speaks.

“Oh my boy. Thirsty?”

“Y-y-“

“Here, baby. Don’t speak, okay? Don't tire yourself. The doctor should be here soon.”

Two small sips, and it already feels too much. “Doc?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I complain about Dr Strange sometimes, but who doesn’t? Anyway. He’s really good at what he does, and that’s what really matters so... I asked him to come here since you weren’t responding to my nudging. God, you made me worried out of my mind... and you’re burning all over, Peter...”

May keeps on talking but it requires too much energy to focus on her voice, so Peter listens to himself instead: his eyes hurt as he tries to keep them open, feeling wasted, malaise and fatigue all over, and he just wants to evaporate so this will all be over. He doesn’t know what is happening and he doesn’t know what to do other than to lay there in his bed and wait for the doctor to examine him.

It gets worse when Dr Strange turns out to be carrying the same stylistic beard as Mr Stark and the same magnetic aura that dominates the room he’s in. On the plus side, he gives utmost attention and delicacy to Peter’s symptoms, listening what he has to say with patience and not distressing him with his touches, only short, direct instructions for scientific purposes.

When he is done he puts a respectable distance between them. “I have written the medications you will need to take for two weeks, and let’s hope you will be alright by then to come to my office for a final check-up.”

“Hope?” Peter frowns. “Is there somethin’ you’re no’ tellin’ me, doc?”

“It should be me asking it.” Dr Strange looks him dead in the eye. “You’re persistent on not taking the suppresants I would like to give to you, and you won’t tell me what actually happened although I already know the case.”

His breath quickens. “How did you—“

“_Please._” The doctor makes a vague motion of his hand. “It’s very normal amongst the newly presented Omegas to go through these stages. You are no different. Not only in biology, also in terms of age. You are afraid your aunt will know.”

Cautious, Peter nods.

“You are an adult, Mr Parker. A young one at that, but still. Whatever information you will decide to share with me herein is private and confidential. I am not asking for a name or a detail. Yes or no, that’s it. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes.”

The Omega hardly bites down a whiny protest as the doctor sits at the end of his bed.

“Did you dream this particular scene before?”

“No.”

“And when you did, were they taking care of you? Keeping you safe and happy? A scene you would wish to see?”

_Wish to see._ “Yes.”

“Can you tell they are a particular someone that matches your interests? Just like what you are looking for?”

“Yes.”

“Considering the circumstances, could you be possibly experiencing one-sided attraction?”

Peter winces.

“Don’t feel obligated to answer any of this if it’s making you uncomfortable. I’m sorry it’s the only way I can help you.”

“It’s okay,” Peter tells him. He looks sincere, and a little worn around the edges. But that’s okay, Peter feels like he can tell him, if not much. “They’re not someone I’m supposed to fall for, and we keep seeing each other. I mean, I enjoy spending time with them and I...” _can’t stay away._ “I... I guess that’s all I can say.”

Dr Strange hums. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

He gets up, gathering his things.

“Wait,” Peter calls behind him. “Is that it?”

“It’s up to you. You need to let them know, whoever they are, that you see them as a potential mate because that is exactly what you are experiencing. The heat hallucinations.”

“H-heat hallucinations?”

“_Yes._ You were possibly not dreaming, from the way you told me about how you were able to smell, hear and feel things. They are dream-like and easy to confuse,” he elaborates. “They feel very real, and when you wake up you will need to hold on to that reality. In this case you weren’t able to. They were not there for you to provide for your needs which left you unwell and feeble.”

_It felt so real._

“A delusion...” Peter voices, lost.

“A delusion is what it’s going to come down to in the end, the longer you keep this up. With more frequent hallucinations you will lose touch with reality, and I have never heard an unmated Omega coming back from that.” He speaks as if keeping a child away from fire—a firm caution meant for Peter. “If it happens again I won’t bother to tell you ‘told you so’, and in return for my wasted time I will gladly assign an extra double shift to your aunt.”

*

Peter is well and truly fucked. That’s what he tells himself since _the accident—_a week already passed by.

He tells himself it won’t happen again.

*

Two weeks pass by.

It won’t happen again. It won’t.

*

It doesn’t happen again, which is a relief, because Peter can’t, he can’t fall deeper in this wellhole. But he can’t deny the hole carved in his chest either—he misses _him_.

*

He gets better. He eats, sleeps and takes his pills on time. By the time he’s fully healed, it’s easier to fall asleep and keep track of his daily routine.

It’s near the end of his winter break that Peter receives a text from Mr Stark. He’s been mostly silent since their last encounter, and Peter was starting to worry if it had nothing to do with his Seoul trip for SI and everything to do with how Peter wrecked the sheets and came like a cascade, so to speak. He didn’t mention the Alpha anything about his struggles for the past few weeks, how could he. And it hurts Peter to think about Dr Strange’s recommended solution—it’s sickening.

_come outside_

_quick, or I can ask your aunt to excuse us_

_by the way_

_still not promising to get you home by ten_

Peter grins despite the fast beating of his heart. It would be equally hilarious and horrifying to see May’s reaction to Tony Stark on her doorstep.

_who says I wanna get home by ten_

Wait.

_You came back? You here NOW?_

_I am,_ the text message simply says. _Don’t keep this old man waiting_

He was laying on the couch with Carla curled on his lap, and in his haste to jump to his feet the poor thing falls on four feet.

“Don’t be mad at me!”

He runs to his room, ignoring Carla’s grunt along with May’s curious call, grabbing a pair of jeans and a hoodie, no not a hoodie, what about—

“Peter?”

May’s knocking on the door.

“Just a sec!”

Can he wear monthly lenses for more than a month? Probably not. He’s going to anyway, since he doesn’t have any left.

“Is everything alright, honey?”

“Yeah!” Peter yells. “Just going outside with a friend! Somethin’ last-minute!”

Satisfied at his handiwork, he moves on to the other eye to create the same smoky look; a thin layer of smudged kohl. Barely there-like, effortless and minimum.

“I thought MJ was out of the city.”

“May!” He opens the door to let her in, then grabs a bottle of perfume to adorn his look. “MJ is not my only friend.”

“‘Course I know, baby. You look very excited, that’s all. Bouncing around the room like a monkey,” she laughs.

What can he say. He did miss him. They messaged each other time to time, but Peter longed for the late night calls that lasted for hours, especially when he couldn’t have the luxury of being around the man all the time. Even though he is scared to be in his presence after what happened Peter can’t miss this opportunity.

“Is this a friend I should know about?”

“Um.”

May seems to consider him for a moment. “Alright, you seem in a hurry so I won’t push. I’m just happy you’re back on your feet. Have fun, and be careful.”

Relieved, Peter kisses her on the cheek. “I will. Bye, May!”

He slams the door shut and runs down the old building’s stairs in twos threes, almost tripping and falling like a toddler would. It takes a second to spot the shiny Rolls Royce and when Peter gets on the passenger seat his heart skips a beat: Mr Stark is fresh from his trip, the wild and shapely look masterfully blended if it’s possible, but it’s _Tony Stark_ so anything is possible. According to the timing and from the looks of it, he’s came right to Peter’s doorstep without dropping by his house first or anywhere else.

Peter wants to believe it so.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Pete. Record timing, I’m impressed. Did I give you much trouble?” He shakes the Stark phone in his hand.

“Oh, not at all.” _Just a brief cardiac arrest._ “Had me surprised, is all.”

It is true, Mr Stark hadn’t mentioned his arrival time and Peter was simply too shy to ask.

“Pepper took mercy on me this time. And I had better things to do anyway.”

_Pepper._ It’s not that hard to guess she’s the woman in Mr Stark’s life if she was worth mentioning more than once, given the playboy’s lifestyle and all.

“What kind of things?”

“You.”

“_Me?_”

“I mean. I wouldn’t come up empty handed here. Got something for you.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I wanted to, Peter. Would’ve done so much more if I knew you’d let me.”

“You’ve done so much already,” Peter reminds him. No matter what, he is grateful. “And this. Thank you for, you know, coming here.” He bows his head for a brief moment to say the rest: “I’m so glad you’re back. So glad to see you.”

“...It’s nice to be back.”

When Peter looks up to see Mr Stark wetting his lips, he quickly turns his gaze on his lap once again.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Is there a reason you’re blushing like that?” Fingers grab his chin, and tilt his head. “Not that I don’t enjoy the view. And here you were asking what business I had coming here. This one is way more entertaining.”

Mr Stark makes a great work of turning Peter to a ruddy tomato, that much is clear. The touch is addicting, and is only serving to prove Peter’s former thoughts to be true. He really did miss him.

“Hey, don’t go shy on me now. Came all the way here to see you, and you’re going to hide from me?”

I want you to see _me_, is the problem, Peter thinks. And he has always been so afraid of being seen.

“I know a hundred ways to make a man speak, but none of them will make you happy.” A considerating halt. “At least, not some of them.”

He’s in his casual attire and not in a suit, but Tony Stark’s understanding of casual is unlike anybody else’s. Point is, Peter still wants to rub his dick on the Alpha’s trouser leg, which takes him to the source of his worries in the first place.

Time to let it out. At least, some of them.

“I couldn’t thank you properly for that night when we, uh, when we went out, you know. After I passed out, I still don’t remember much of it, but... I remember you stayed with me, just because I asked. And I don’t know why I asked, so I... I just wanted to say... thank you.”

“It was your world, remember? Whatever worked for you, I went along with it. No need to thank me. It was amazing.”

“Really?” Peter beams.

“Really,” Mr Stark smiles back at him. “You were amazing Pete.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. You were amazing that night. Bet you’re amazing every night... and day. All the time.”

Inside, the Omega is squeezing in delight, but Mr Stark is all composed and suave as he keeps complimenting him: “That’s what I think whenever I see you, kid. You’re amazing.”

Peter is glad he’s not standing right now or his knees would give away.

“You deserve the best for being... you. You’re a trasure, Peter Parker.” Fingers caress his warm cheek. “My treasure. _Tesoro mio._”

It’s all too much, and Peter wants to hug him, to get lost in his scent, to bury his face in his neck and rub up against the solid warmth of him like a cat in heat, just like in that vivid dream he had, in that _devastatingly_ vivid dream he had.

“_Grazie,_”[1] he manages to say.

Mr Stark’s eyes shine in amusement, with a hint of intensity to it.

“I still don’t know what you say all the time!” Peter rushes to explain, palms thrown upwards. “I tried to learn a few words on my own, since you seem to switch tongues often.”

“It’s not unheard people can’t keep up with my tongue.”

Mr Stark is simply entertained by the thought; he laughs, and it’s the crows-feet again. Peter wants to reach forward too, and touch freely. Just like Mr Stark keeps touching him.

“I’m sure I can handle it. Will you teach me more?”

“We’ll see.”

“Don’t tease me,” Peter grins, shoving him away. Mr Stark is grinning too.

“Right. We’ve got all night ahead of us.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’ve promised to take you somewhere fancy, haven’t I? It’s time I make up for the lost time. What do you feel like eating?”

Peter shoots him a sheepish smile. “I don’t know, to be honest.”

“I’ve got a few places in mind, but whatever you’d prefer is fine with me.”

Thinking about it for a second: “I’m always up for a steak,” he decides.

“Then steak it is.”

Tonight he’s on the safe side, making risk free choices such as his outfit, and. He feels better, so much that—God. Who is he kidding. Him accepting Mr Stark into his life, first giving him his number, and now going out with him a second time in less than a month and everything else in between.

The heat hallucinations, for God’s sake.

All of it screams ‘fatal risk’ in his face. Peter imagines the warning sign of a death’s-head with capital letters of ‘WARNING: HIGH RISK’ and it’s better than the stern look Dr Strange gave him, admonishment written all over it. The sudden distress is an overwhelming weight hanging over his head, and it takes a moment for him to realize the engine is turned off.

Calloused fingers meet his own fidgeting ones and untangle them with care. “We can turn back anytime you want. No hard feelings,” Mr Stark says, an open, kind gleam in his eyes.

“N-no. Definitely not. I really want to...” Peter doesn’t deserve the kindness he sees in there. “We should...” _talk openly about—_ “go inside.”

The fresh evening air does little to alleviate the sensation of nausea. The desire to feel grounded and whole comes with a small price, and it’s always Mr Stark’s touch that does it for him. As they reach the grandeur entrance, a tall brunette opens the door for them. She wears claret red from head to toe, and a welcoming smile that is completely professional. “...Welcome, Mr Stark... Welcome, sir. We are so honored to be your first choice for tonight. This way, if you please...”

It is a high-end steakhouse Peter has never heard of, and the admiration intensifies as they approach their secluded table with a charming view of a rose garden, enormous and well maintained.

Mr Stark laughs at his small gasp of awe. “I knew you would like it.”

“I _loved_ it. Look at all those colours, I could spend hours just looking them.”

“Why look when we could walk down the pathway? Just saying.”

Peter beams in exicement, hands clasping. “You’re absolutely amazing. How you arranged it all is beyond me.”

A silk of shoulder. “Stark is not an easy name to ignore.”

“That, I agree.”

The Alpha comforts him by saying he can pick whatever he wants, and if he’s unsure of what to eat a sample of every single dish from the menu will be provided for him in an instant. Appetizers, entrées, desserts... a myriad of flavours without the price specified. In the end he settles for what Mr Stark prefers for himself.

Their plates are serviced right on time, and Peter detects the mouth-watering smell even before the waitress approaches their table with a fancy food trolley. Behind her, the restaurant chef surprises them with an extravagant presentation of a super-sized burger sprinkled with gold flakes, and politely requests to take a photo if the Alpha and his ‘pretty companion’ deems suitable, of course.

“What do you say, pretty one? Is that alright with you?”

“Shut _up,_” Peter grins at him.

They pose for the camera after a moment of adjustment: Peter, Mr Stark and the chef who points a thumb at their direction with an elated smile on his face. And next, it’s just Peter and Mr Stark in front of the lenses, who presses the faintest of touches behind the small of his back, and trying to prevent the shudder _that_ causes is as torturous as grasping a thorny rose for the sake of the heavenly smell of it.

“Wait, what was it? _Protégé_, should I’ve said? I still did not forget about that.”

Peter’s face flushes at the reminder. “You better forget about that.”

“I make no promises.”

“You make this feel more like a yearbook photo, is what you’re doing.”

“Mm. I wonder what your quote would be.”

The fiery blush spreads everywhere, and the low, rich laugh is to blame.

“I have no idea.”

“Last one, Mr Stark,” the man behind the camera calls.

Mr Stark’s stare is centred on his cheekbone, and he leans closer to whisper directly in Peter’s ear. “I’ll tell you: hot and bothered.”

Peter gasps, eyes comically wide open and solely focused on the man next to him whose profile is purely sculpturesque and perfectly shaped.

That’s when the camera flashes.

“That was unfair!” Peter complains, a smile on his face but it momentarily falters as he spots two men in black suits a few tables away.

“It was worth it. Come on,” Mr Stark signals for him to sit and Peter finally tears his gaze away.

They eat between smooth conversation and cheerful laughter, and Peter’s suspections are forgotten for the meantime. It’s so easy to talk to the man with all his charm and intelligence, and there are millions of people dying to take Peter’s place right now, but none of them knows he is sadly one of them too.

“It’s awesome, Mr Stark. Thank you,” he says around a mouthful, relishing in the delicious bite with half-closed eyelids. “You are my hero.”

“That’s not a thing to say for the monster under your bed.”

“As long as you don’t secretly have Voldemort at the back of your head I think we are good. You know what they say: don’t mess with dark magic.”

“A dark world nonetheless.”

“Tell me more then. I can see you have a lot on your plate.”

“Funny,” Mr Stark gives a shake of laughter—this is better. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m a great listener, take your time.”

“You know what I do, aside from mingling with tech and design. Where my true interests lie.”

Peter adjusts himself in his seat. “Was SI always a back-up plan?”

“A safer bet, let’s say.”

“’Cause it’s always about the money?”

“It’s a means to an end.”

“So... you make deals and win the gamble?”

“I don’t need their dirty money, sweetheart. I have tons of it. I don’t give a damn about their petty excuses, promises they can’t keep. I take what I want, whenever I want it.”

“And some don’t like it.”

“Some don’t like it,” Mr Stark agrees. “Doesn’t mean they can stop me.”

“They could always try.”

“Which brings me to my point. You must know the danger I’m putting you in by now.”

Peter feels himself falling in his own trap. “I told you before,” he chews another bite, “around you is where I feel the safest.”

“Bold words coming from a live target.”

“C’mon. You are just worried about me.”

“’Just’ is an understatement. Besides, worry shouldn’t be on my list.”

“It counts as weakness, isn’t it?”

“Always,” Mr Stark gives a curt nod. “Especially when it’s eating you away.”

Peter recalls their first encounter, how it all started. When he thinks about it, a rogue Alpha had nothing to do with Tony Stark having a role in his life—the opposite, actually. “You’ve seen me at my weakest, at my most vulnerable. Look where it led us.”

“You were so brave to begin with.”

“It’s nice of you to think so. But tell me, have you ever felt at your weakest?”

Mr Stark coughs behind a fist, alarmed. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t see that coming.”

“Is it so bad though?”

“That was supposed to be a secret.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Peter can’t help laughing at how cheesy it sounds. “It’s okay if you don’t feel like sharing.”

“I didn’t mean,” he falters for a moment, “I just don’t want to scare you away.”

“You saved my life, _no_ way I could be scared of you.”

“There’s more to the man you see.”

“I’ve seen plenty. None of them made me feel safe as to share a bed with them.”

One.

Two.

...Three.

“Oh God I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr Stark. Can’t believe—I. That was highly... inappropriate,” he immediately panicks and begins hyperventilating. “I’m really—” There’s no way out of this, is there? “I’m r-really sorry, please j-just let me—“

“No no no, Peter look at me,” Mr Stark rushes to soothe him even while he looks as affected as Peter is, if not more.

“I—I’m—“

What he comes across is a sense of guilt reflected back at him, unvoiced but not unseen. “Just look at me...” Maybe that is a trickery of Peter’s blurred vision since his eyes are glistening with hot tears of shame.

Mr Stark doesn’t allow them to flow down his cheeks.

“You caught me off guard, _tesoro._ _Mio piccolo angelo.”_[2] He gives a shaky laughter, and Peter joins him. “It’s okay...” He holds Peter’s stare as he leans forward and bares himself open for what he’s got to say next, low and intensive: “When you asked me to stay that night, I... hesitated. That was the only time I felt at my weakest.”

Peter’s heart flutters in his chest.

“And now you have it.”

_He is a mess._ Skin tingling, his cheeks are beet red, if not smeared with black liner. He can’t. He can’t put an end to this. He will never be able to.

“You made me feel weak.”

His thighs tighten around the seat to a painful degree, and Peter barely veils a pathetic sound before he finally dares to ask:

“How come?”

“How come, I ask myself too.”

“You left.”

“Had to leave.”

“You left the country. I thought...”

What he thought, Mr Stark will never know and Peter won’t get this chance again.

It’s the waitress.

“May I offer to help you find a suitable choice for your dish, Mr Stark? Here, if you please have a look...”

She demonstrates him an extensive wine list which Mr Stark kindly refuses, but that’s not the end of it. “Here are some alternatives for you to...” She flips her hair as she hovers around their table, eager to make eye contact and bat her ridiculously long lashes any time she is given notice, coming up with endless suggestions of services, including “...we aim to provide memorable meals for your pleasure...”

She leans towards the Alpha rather self-indulgently, and Peter stops in his feast of taste upon seeing her boldness: it’s a body posture of a tempting Beta and the proximity crosses the lines of what might be considered as socially appropriate. “Is there anyway we can improve our service to you?”

Lips curled in a snarl, Peter can’t hear past the venom in her voice, so whatever reply Mr Stark gives in return is unheard.

“Oh, I understand that.”

Lastly, she picks the platter from the hot plate and places it on their table, manicured fingers working deftly.

“Be careful, sir. It is still too hot to touch.”

“Thank you.” Mr Stark doesn’t look at her way at all.

“It’s my pleasure, Mr Stark.”

She smiles and sways her hips as she walks away, and Peter realizes the bitter feeling in his gut to be a fight for power, a possessiveness over the man he so desires and can’t stand to share with anybody else.

He must do something. Anything.

He hastily glances around the table, craving for a destruction of some shorts. The stinging hotness behind his eye sockets is back again, this time much worse; he feels smothered.

There.

The steak is fuming with sizzling sounds, smelling incredible but dangerously too hot to touch—seems to came out straight from the oven and must be waited at least for a few minutes to be savoured in advised temperature.

_Too hot to touch._

It’s silly and impulsive, so there is no valid justification in the world that could save him, and no time to think before he reaches over to—

“_Ow._”

“Peter! Jesus!”

Mr Stark jumps from his seat with jarring force and the chair lands on the floor with a loud _bang_, however he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. The staff pace around to follow the Alpha’s fierce series of orders in high speed: “Bring me some ice, quick! Quick!” They move so fast it all appears a blur to the Omega, who is sucking a finger to lessen the throbbing pain until a pack of ice is slipped in his palm in record timing. The biting cold is enough to numb his senses even through the layers of the quality fabric wrapped around it, but his nerves still can’t seem to shake off the blind panic and calm the hell down: his hand shakes violently, and if he grasps it with his other one Mr Stark will notice.

“Sir, we sincerely apologize on behalf of our—”

“Save it,” Mr Stark grumbles. “Least you can do is give us some privacy.”

“Oh—of course, sir, as you please.”

The bashful manager bows before them and repeats a dozen of apologizes under his breath over and over as he steps back all the way, cleaning the area of any eyewitnesses or curious glances.

The men in suits are gone.

“Are you okay?”

Mr Stark’s gaze roves over him.

“Oh, I’m… I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem like it.”

They look at each other’s eyes, and it’s impossible not to detect the frantic concern cloaked under his controlled smile. _Look who’s talking._

“I’m fine, Mr Stark. Really fine.”

It’s not as assuring as Peter wants it to be when his voice wavers around the syllables, a poor attempt that is unresponded to. Peter’s sure inside the Alpha’s brain nothing could ever be statical, and he’s proven correct: Mr Stark leans back on his seat, casually hooks his feet around the chair legs and pulls Peter toward himself to check out his hand. It all happens in one swift motion, and the effortless display of strength knocks the wind out of him.

“You are a little goat undercovering as a lamb, I swear,” Mr Stark sighs. “Gonna be the death of me soon enough... and nobody can tell me otherwise.”

Well.

“The evidence is stacked against me, so I won’t fight you on that,” Peter chuckles, and the tight set of Mr Stark’s jaw blissfully softens around the edges.

This close, Mr Stark is able to check over the burn, and when he presses in just a little bit deeper Peter lets out a pained groan.

“This doesn’t seem good.” Mr Stark turns his hand upwards, running tentative touches and tracing the angry lines of his skin, and each passing second is a harsh reminder of Peter’s reckless behaviour, like sea waves crashing stone at bay.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs with his eyes downcast. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Peter. Just tell me what can I do. Anything. Name it.”

The cube of ice is a dull drum on his skin, but it’s not enough to dampen the hot flames of shame he bathes himself in.

“Maybe... Maybe you could help me with,” a push of plate to the side, “that.” He looks at the Alpha under his lashes, feeling insatiable and out of his mind. _Haven’t you learned your lesson?_ “Maybe you could feed me. It hurts to touch anything.”

The crook of his neck burns like needles piercing through his skin—the same defenseless spot where his scent glands are and where a mating bite should be. He covers it with his free hand, and the tentative motion is followed by Mr Stark’s dark gaze.

“I.”

The grip around his wrist tightens, causing the flimsy veins to pulsate in a rocketing pace, and he hears Mr Stark softly curse under his breath. “I’ll help you with that.”

“Thank you.”

The thumb digs in the soft flesh. A warning. “No.”

“No?”

“You know how to say that,” Mr Stark reminds him.

Peter bites his lip.

“Come on, say it.”

“_Grazie,_” he says, his voice barely audible.

Then the Alpha leans forward to feed him a spoonful of cream cheese mashed potatoes, and makes sure Peter licks it clean. “Good boy.”

“M-hm...” Each flick and lap of his tongue earns him another bite, and Peter moans at the rich flavour mellowing his taste buds.

Moments pass, and the cover of his hand isn’t sufficient for suppressing the fever at all, it’s as razor-sharp blades are cutting him in grim slices. Peter wonders how a puff of cool air would feel over it—a breath, a flick of tongue. A stubble. Rough against wet.

His ears ring off with the feverish fantasy.

Mr Stark leisurely feeds him another mouthful and then another, presenting whatever there is to give with pride. The cheese melts in his mouth marvelously, and Peter carries on letting out unashamed noises and cherishes the way the Alpha provides for him; dark pupils following every throughly lick and suck and hollow of his cheeks. The muscles in his face twist in delight, and Mr Stark runs a knuckle down Peter’s cheek.

“Any space for dessert?” Mr Stark asks, voice hoarse like he’d had a heavy smoke.

Peter cleans his mouth with a napkin. “I’m full to the brim.”

It’s irrational. It’s all kinds of wrong at every level—this whole thing is—but he can’t bring himself to care. His sight was scarlet with rage and scintillant layers of jade clouded his judgment the moment he saw—

Fuck.

If he reacts like this to a random waitress then Peter can’t comprehend how he will handle Mr Stark finally telling him about the woman in his life, the one he kissed on the lips; grabbed on the shoulders in an act of familiar easiness and smiled into it—

Oh so easily.

*

He is so fucking hard under the table, as hard as a rock.

If it weren’t for the years of practiced self-control Tony would throw every caution out of the window and bury his face in Peter’s neck and breath the life out of him. To hell with it, he would bite into the dainty curve of his neck and claim his mark for everyone else to see: a bond so deep to the core, exclusive. _Grazie._ Christ. It’s a corporal punishment to hear the Omega utter the forbidden and keep his hands all to himself. The breadcrumbs of self-restraint isn’t enough to appease the wolf’s hunger, and with each tick-tack he lets the leash uncoil inch by inch. Tony wants to tell him he can’t just say the word like that—and he wants to hear it again. Just like that.

While he strives to find a distraction like a man possessed, something else occurs to him: the gift.

“For luck on your big night,” Tony says to him.

Peter’s eyes widen at the chic package landed on his lap. “You remembered!”

“Of course I did. Come on, open up.”

The clock is ticking in anticipated silence—on Tony’s part at least, since that is how he interprets the countdown. The wrapping paper rustles, crumples and tears under Peter's excited, slender fingers and for a moment Tony fears he’s made the wrong move by choosing—

“Oh... _wow._ I can’t believe this!”

Tony exhales hard.

“There was no need to... Oh this is one of the most famous brands in the world. I can’t imagine how much these cost... and for such a short-lived thing... wha—with my initials stamped on it?!” Peter beams in delight, and the admiration in his eyes punches the breath out of him in a heartbeat.

“For you,” Tony smiles back at him. “Totally custom fit, so you won’t waste your time with appointments.”

“That’s... Thank you, Mr Stark. Thank you so much.” He holds an elegant set of pointe shoes and presses them to the side of his cheek, relishing in the softness of it. “I’ve no idea how you figured out my foot measurements and all this but... I loved these a lot.”

“Given the fact that I held them in my hands once, and my perfect skills of observation...” Tony rambles, like the fool he is, but Peter is too stunned by the gesture to pay attention; he goes a beautiful shade of red and indulges himself with his gift for a few wonderful minutes of adoration. The soft satin is a lighter shade of pink and reflects a bit of light with every turn and twist of Peter’s wrist.

“Thank you, Mr Stark. It means a lot to me.”

_This is nothing._ “I’m glad you like it.”

“Love it! They’re so pretty...”

“...Yeah,” Tony echoes, Peter’s eyes locked on his gift, and Tony’s eyes locked on him. “Pretty.”

He can’t take his eyes off of him. Not sure if he even wants to. They’re not referring to the same thing in terms of beauty and that’s okay, but Tony wants him to know; how pretty, smart and kind he is. Innocent and pure. Passionate and brave. “_Piccolo... sei così bello in questo momento._”[3]

He blushes so gracefully under Tony’s gaze and cherishes his gift by heart, unaware of the sins confessed to his face, all the while feeding the beast inside the Alpha without having the faintest idea.

“_Sei il mio bellissimo angelo._”[4]

Peter manages to turn him on by just being himself, and that’s it: in his haste to soothe his throbbing ache now Tony is fully hardened, hungry and ready. His muscles are stretched with restrain and his dick begs to be freed and all he wants to do right now is throw every piece neatly placed on the table and eat Peter up instead. It’s a hunger no Michelin 3-star restaurant could _ever_ provide for him.

Who is stopping him? Who?

He has had enough.

“Show me how much you love it, baby. Make a man feel proud.”

Peter looks at him with his mouth agape.

“You know how to, don’t you.”

Without waiting for another response he pulls Peter onto his lap, maybe because he’s an impatient bastard or a destructive animal of some sort, Tony doesn’t know and not much cares but there’s no other explanation to the inhuman sound he makes the moment their lips are sealed together in a passionate kiss, and he would rather much savour the soft little whimpers Peter lets out instead. “Oh—m-hm...” The pleasing warmth of his petite body is an exquisite fit to Tony’s cold, rough edges, and it feels like they _match_, feels like they _fit._

“M-mph!” The silky brush of Peter’s tongue alights his pleasure seeking nerves like a shot and he wants more, needs more so he places his thumbs on Peter’s cheeks to coax his mouth open and feverishly dive inside. “Mph, Stark—“ Peter opens wider to let the rest of him in, and their tongues taste, twirl and curl around each other’s and splutter saliva across their chins.

When they part for breath Peter attempts to hide behind splayed fingers over his eyes, but there’s no way he can masquerade the sounds escaping him.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” Tony rasps, wistful. As to prove his point, he presses Peter down his body as hard as he can, desperate to show him how much he enjoys this too, and how bad he craves for more. “Just give in to me.”

“They—_ah,_” Peter buckles his hips up despite himself, “they’ll _see._”

“Who cares. Let them.”

Peter turns his head away, breathing harshly. “We can’t.”

“Who says we can’t... You’re making me crazy...” He palms Peter’s ass, urging him to go faster and let loose because that’s what Tony dies to see. “God, how am I supposed to keep it cool around you?”

Peter whimpers again, biting at his lower lip.

“None of that now,” Tony warns. “Look at me when I’m the only one who can make you feel this good. The first one there ever was. The only one there _ever_ will be.”

“F-feels so good,” Peter pants against his lips, hips rocking harder and meeting him halfway.

“Fuck, yes. Won’t share you with anybody else, won’t let them have a piece of _this._” He grabs a handful of meat, and squeezes it tight. “Gonna mark you up whenever you’re on stage. An obscene exhibition of Tony Stark’s property. You’ll wear those too, won’t you? Make me feel proud?”

“Y-yes sir I...”

“’Cause you belong to me,” Tony presses on, a growl ripping out of his chest as he grinds their crotches together, frantic to see Peter come undone. “You’re my property. My mess. My everything.”

“Yours.”

“Good boy,” Tony encourages. “And what do you say?”

“Thank you...” He looks feverish and feels divine. “_Grazie,_ Mr Stark, _grazie..._”

“_Fuck._” His hips buckle up with a jolt. “Fuck, Peter. Say that again.” Regaining his breath, Tony leans slightly back to fully appreciate the feast served on his lap: how trusting Peter is, limp and pliant in his hold. He is a whining and mewling mess but deep inside he knows he’s in right place, right hands, if anything his smell gives it away, voluptuous, begging to be fucked and corrupted.

“_Mr Stark..._” Peter gasps and moans and chants his name. “Mr Stark... Mr Stark...”

“Mr Stark.”

Peter swings a hand in his line of vision, almost making Tony jump from his seat a second time tonight.

Tony blinks.

The Omega isn’t red from head to toe, isn’t rubbing up against him with smothering kisses and definitely isn’t submitting to him in that sweet accent he has going on—he looks perfectly composed across the seat.

“Is something the matter? You’re staring.”

Oh. _Oh._ “Fuck.”

* * *

[1] Thank you.

[2] My little angel.

[3] Baby, you’re so beautiful right now.

[4] You are my beautiful angel.


	6. The Loss

“Before I forget. This is for you,” Mr Stark says, one hand in his pocket and the other one handing him something—a polaroid photograph. Peter grabs it.<strike></strike>

He _melts_ at the first sight.

It’s two faces smiling back at him; Peter with wide eyes and pink cheeks and Tony with an alluring smile and dark, expressive eyes. The sympathetic atmosphere of the frame is even more alluring to look at when those bright orbs shine almost in rivalry with even brighter, carefree smiles. It is a dream embodied in a tiny paper; a moment engraved in forever. It’s not just Peter but _them_. It’s Peter and Tony.

Tony.

_Tony_.

It makes Peter’s head spin with something warm and fuzzy, the same thing that keeps his insides liquid and makes him unable to stand on his feet. He’s never thought about it before, never dared to, but now he sees it clear as day: they look so good together.

Maybe he can’t keep Mr Stark, but he can keep this.

This is his.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “I’ll keep it.”

First the exquisite dinner night, then the fancy pointe shoes and now this. It’s... the most amazing thing Peter has felt for a long time. It’s pretty much impossible to hold himself together when the hormones of joy and happiness are simultaneously crashing into him in waves. He inhales deeply, letting the fresh night air fill in his lungs. “Thank you, Mr Stark. It was a nice evening out.”

Mr Stark smiles at him pleasantly. “Have no better place to be, kid.”

He says it in such a casual manner that it’s almost unfair while Peter’s heart is ceaselessly making these _bump bump bumps_ against his chest.

Somewhere amidst all that mess it doesn’t escape his notice that the word ‘kid’ doesn’t bother him as much as it used to anymore. Something changed between them, tangible yet unspoken. With each encounter, the mutual respect has evolved into something much deeper. That is equal parts terrifying and exciting for Peter, exciting because that’s what he exactly wants, terrifying because that’s _exactly_ what he shouldn’t have.

They were informed the car will be ready in a few minutes at the front gate, and since their time together almost came to an end Peter wanted to make the most of it and explore the magnificent garden of roses. As his wish is complied like all the other ones Mr Stark makes it happen for him in an instant.

_Can’t have,_ Peter reminds himself.

They slowly walk the road of roses, each step presenting them a new sight to behold. At some point there is a separate area between the stony road and the flora which draws a securing line for the visitors. Although his rational brain is against it Peter crosses the line and reaches a tentative hand towards one with blood red petals, gasping at the first contact in awe.

“It’s so beautiful.”

“Beautiful indeed,” Mr Stark says back.

“Admiring doesn’t even cover it,” he traces the velvety texture, hypnotized, “so fragile yet I can’t resist touching it.” His eyes are closed as if to enchance his other senses, the petals now caressing the side of his cheek. It feels good, heavenly good.

“No man could... to such beauty.”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes you just can’t stay away. The more you resist, the deeper it’s pulling you in,” Mr Stark tells him. “You cross the line before you know it and it’s too damn late.”

Mr Stark’s voice is thick with emotion Peter can’t decipher, the words so intense and compelling that his eyes are forced to open instantly. He turns his head only to find Mr Stark’s gaze, slow and intent, fixed on him. He was watching Peter the whole time, perhaps. Perhaps he was not pointing at the roses when he said those words.

Perhaps there was more to it than he let on.

A moment of silence passes between them.

“I know I shouldn’t have,” Peter blinks rapidly, his cheeks feeling like they got smashed between thorny roses and bleeding hot as a result. “There are boundaries for a reason.”

He is not consciously aware of what it is he’s referring to anymore, if it’s the innocent roses or something else─something entirely impure.

“I know it so well,” Mr Stark assures him.

Peter wonders if the Alpha can actually read minds or if he were to have that skill how many seconds would it take him to get far away from Peter as fast as possible. _I’m taken, kid. You should’ve known that._

“Still. Shouldn’t have.”

Mr Stark shakes his head in protest, seemingly alert. “You are allowed to do whatever you want whenever you want, Peter. If not, I’ll make that happen for you.”

“For me?” Peter echoes.

“I’ll do anything.” Mr Stark doesn’t tear his gaze away. Only that his voice becomes almost inaudible as he says the rest: “_Qualsiasi cosa... e intendo proprio qualsiasi cosa..._”[1]

They’re standing pretty close, elbows almost touching. The desire to surge forward and throw himself in Mr Stark’s arms is too strong for Peter’s weak heart, the same weak spot that flutters in his chest like a hummingbird at the sound Mr Stark makes, a tantalizing music to his ears.

Except that there’s actually a song playing a bit far away from where they stand. The elegant jazz can be heard from where they are, a rhythmic temptation that doesn’t help the Omega’s twitchy limbs to repress themselves.

“We’ve done it before.”

Before Peter can ask what Mr Stark refers to, he grabs Peter by his elbow to bring him closer to himself.

“So, why shy?”

_Ah._ “I was drunk off my ass then.”

“You’re sure sober now?”

Peter swallows.

In sync they are dancing to the soft beat, slow and easy. The hand cupped by Mr Stark’s calloused one lightly sweats and shakes with rushed hormones, and all Peter can do is follow Mr Stark’s graceful steps and not embrass himself as a professional ballet dancer. Love literally makes you stupid in that sense. Oh, the _irony_.

“Thank you, sir,” he whispers, heart full of gratitude.

Mr Stark’s hand squeezes his fingers tighter, almost like a reflex. “I meant it,” his low voice speaks directly into Peter’s reddened ears as if sharing a secret, “anything.”

Peter bites his bottom lip just in time to prevent any sound from escaping, however he is not the one to blame if Mr Stark notices the way his whole body shudders or if he _smells_ _it_. There’s no secure line to keep himself away from Mr Stark no matter how much he tries, Peter knows.

They gently swing back and forth, basking in the comfortable tune. Peter could keep it up all night, but the persistent vibration on his backside alerts him to abruptly release himself from Mr Stark’s solid hold.

He takes a look at his phone to see the caller ID. “May? You there?”

No sound—

—then.

Screams. Glass shattering. Unrecognizable words. His own name.

“Peter.”

Screams. Shatter. Fear.

“Peter.” Mr Stark holds his face tight, probably shaking him. “You alright?”

He doesn’t know.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t... I...”

“_Peter_.”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he stammers.

“Give me that.”

The moment Mr Stark brings the phone to his ear his eyebrows create a restless line on his forehead, and Peter feels it. He can’t pick out the rest for his vision is blurry around the edges.

Mr Stark says no more, just holds Peter’s hand tight and rushes them to the car.

*

It’s a soul wrenching trip back to his place.

Mr Stark doesn’t shy away from breaking every traffic rule there ever exists; from running a red light with formidable speed to taking dozen sharp turns in corners, all that with the two of them miraculously ending up in one piece among with everything and everyone else in their way. Peter watches his face the whole ride, his stillness a silent signal that affirms _everything’s gonna be alright_, but the sharp concentration in his gaze and the taut muscles on his neck give him away.

As the car slows down to the sidewalk Peter is already jumping off from his seat.

“Thank you Mr Stark,” he says in a rush. “I’ll take it from here.”

“What—kid. _No_ way I’m going back.”

Peter turns to him. “You don’t have to be a part of this.”

“Peter,” Mr Stark cuts him off gently. “Just let me help, alright?”

There is this iron will of his, zero hesitation and a full-explosive power only Mr Stark can radiate, and Peter doesn’t know what else to say to that other than feeling utterly grateful.

As they reach the doorstep, there is little light and no noise coming from inside. The door is ajar. There’s no restraint on the lock.

“You forgot to lock it?” Mr Stark turns to him.

“I didn’t.”

May was at home when he left. Something is off, he can feel it—

“Peter!”

—then May’s cries echo through the walls.

“Peter is that you?”

Peter rushes inside, all the while fear rushing through his veins.

He freezes.

“May.”

Mr Stark gets past him.

He sees her laying on the floor, pallid and in obvious pain, fighting all her willpower to keep her eyes open. Blood strains her clothes relentlessly, dripping from where she clutches at it with trembling fingers. The red is a haunting resemblance of the lovely roses back in the garden, a place entrapped in a dark corner of Peter’s mind by now.

“_May_ _I’m here._ I’m right here.” He crouches down by her side and envelops her upper body in his arms as much as he can. His hold must be either too tight or nothing close to that since his arms and legs move on their own accord. “Oh god oh _god oh god May stay with me c’mon please please stay with me_.”

She looks out of it as much as Peter feels it.

“Keep fighting it,” is the only thing Mr Stark says.

He’s perfectly calm and collected despite it all, apparently this is nothing compared to what he’s been through his whole life and how he lives by. He grabs his phone and talks to someone rapidly, ordering, giving directions—everything is blurry behind Peter’s misty-eyes, and Mr Stark’s voice is the only thing tethering him to the present.

His eyes travel around the scene in a swift motion; what was once a sweet living room is now a bloody mess, pieces of glass scattered all around the furniture, the broken TV and flipped dinner table, their photos, their _memories_, everything resembling hope and home and so much more covered in blood and brutality.

“Don’t look,” Mr Stark warns him.

He would like to ask, only if it wasn’t too damn late. Peter’s eyes land on Carla’s lifeless body a few feet away.

The ugly scream fills in his ears before he can cover his mouth and like he’s been heard the sirens in the distance only grows louder. The first aid crew takes away May’s unconscious body from his arms soon after, and in the end of it all his body convulses with a jolting snap and he throws up on the floor, ill with fear.

Mr Stark embraces him all the way through.

*

_May Parker took a gunshot wound to her abdomen_ _which caused severe bleeding. We will have to do some tests to diagnose the damage, first, and see if there’s an entrance and exit wound from the bullet.”_

“..ter?”

_Your patience is very much needed in the process._

“Peter?”

Peter comes to a sudden halt, jerking at the sound of his name.

“There you are. _Ti stavo cercando ovunque._[2]”

In a blink the rain drops don’t get to wet his hair anymore, so Peter has no excuse for the tears running down cheeks. It’s an internal conflict whether he should turn around to face the Alpha in his crestfallen state or not.

“I know you’re scared.”

Peter folds his arms in his chest, the muscles in his body are all tensed up and jittery from sleepless nights and worry that he can’t find the strength in himself to command them.

Mr Stark doesn’t come any closer, but he must be fairly close enough to block the rain. When he speaks again, Peter finds his voice to be soft with affection all the same. “You don’t have to hide your tears from me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” _Really?_ Peter wants to believe it. “It’s chilly outside, you’re gonna catch cold.”

“I dont,” he pauses, sniffing back a sob, “I don’t wanna go inside.”

The weather is cold and breezy. Peter is most likely the only one taking a walk in this cruel winter, that is, until Mr Stark found him. Mr Stark always finds him, no matter where Peter is hidden to, whether it be a late night terror on the park or here in this chilly and unfriendly place. Mr Stark always seems to know where Peter is, what he _needs_. The thought of it is what finally turns him around to face the Alpha, and it’s not such a terrible thing as he’d thought—Mr Stark doesn’t look bothered by Peter’s pathetic state. In fact he holds this large, black umbrella above them which perfectly blocks the rain and strokes Peter’s cheek with a feather-like touch. There’re thousands of uncertainties going through Peter’s head and the extreme contrast between the two’s body temperatures somehow explains everything.

“I don’t want to face what awaits me there.”

Mr Stark’s thumb tugs at his lower lip, chopped and ashen. “It’s okay.”

“For now.”

“Yes,” Mr Stark nods slowly. “And it’s enough. For now.”

He realizes a tear rolling down his cheek as Mr Stark erases it with his thumb, setting his skin on fire despite the cool wind. His arms unfold instinctively, clinging onto Mr Stark’s biceps through the cashmere coat and snuggling up to his chest. There, everything is much better.

“None of this is your fault.”

“Feels like it,” Peter admits.

“Then that makes me twice as guilty for taking you up on a date at the first place.”

“That’s not fair,” Peter begins. “I know she’s an amazing person. If something happens to her. If I were to lose her... I wanna be there for her but I don’t know how.”

Mr Stark doesn’t look at him in pity, he _understands_ him. “It’s okay to be scared sometimes. It’s okay to cry. You believe me, don’t you?” He cups Peter’s chin, locking their gazes as if to make sure the weight of his words is not lost on him.

Peter swallows, his throat feels dry and the word ‘Alpha’ wants to let loose from his sealing lips: he wants to call him. He reaches for his back pocket instead.

“Carla’s gone and May’s holding on to life with all her strength. Me?” Strangely, with each declaration he feels lighter on the shoulders. “This is the only thing that’s made the last three days bearable for me.” He shows him the tiny piece of photograph with a hopeful glance. “You’re all I have.”

Mr Stark seems lost for words for a splint second.

“You’ve got me,” he affirms, stroking Peter’s face with a warm, calloused hand. “I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

_I want you to kiss me, take me, make me forget, _he desperately wants to say._ But you belong to someone else._

“I was so happy then,” Peter hears himself say, reminiscing the time they’d spent at the restaurant.

“We’ll figure a way out, I promise you,” Mr Stark says, his chest grumbling with it. “I’ll find who did this and make them pay for it. Do you trust me, Peter?”

Peter is sure of himself, of _him_.

He is sure now.

“I trust you with my life.”

The rain pours and the wind claws at their faces, swaying their clothes from side to side, and none of it concerns Peter anymore since he’s shielded from it all in the warmest shelter possible. For an unknown amount of time they stay like that, the photograph smashed between their bodies. Peter buries his face in Mr Stark’s shoulder and keeps wetting his coat, feeling safe and secure in his embrace against all the impossibilities. The Alpha keeps on murmuring words of endearment, pressing soft, comforting kisses on Peter’s forehead, temple and the corner of his eye, hushing his sobs, and it’s okay. He can’t have Mr Stark, but Mr Stark will always be there for him, and it’s enough.

For now at least.

*

“Turns out it was someone I should have known about,” May shoots a glance in his way. “At least I didn’t have to find about it in a playboy magazine, thank God.”

“You’ve been reading those?”

May slightly leans in to pinch the skin at Peter’s arm. “Sorry, sorry!” he giggles, managing to back away only when May lets go of him.

It’s been a week since they’ve got the good news that May’s surgery went successfully along with other procedural examinations. Peter can visit her only once a day due to the strict protocols (it’s not like Mr Stark can’t fix the problem immediately, but Peter believes in the doctors to know what they are doing, so he remains good).

“Tell me from the start.”

“I already did, see? _Three times_.”

“And each time a new detail slips from that tiny mouth,” May points out lightheartedly. “What else should I need to know?”

“That’s all of it, I told you,” Peter insists. May keeps staring at him.

Taking a deep breath doesn’t help him to calm down so he decides to play with his fingers, looking anywhere but her aunt. “We met again on my performance night. He was one of the donators.”

“He must be one of your admirers, you say.”

“May!” Peter feels his cheeks heat up.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying quality performance. Man has got taste, I’ll give him that.”

“Oh God,” Peter puffs out a shaky breath, stroking the side of his face. “Will you please stop that?”

“My boy is the best,” May goes on with a proud smile playing at her lips. “Damn, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a crush on you.”

_I _have a crush on him, Peter thinks, unhappy about it. _He has a crush on someone else_. “I really—I owe so much to him.”

“So do I, sweetheart.”

“He’s been with me this whole time, you know? While I was freaking out and of no help at all.”

May straightens up as if she’s about to protest but Peter beams her into it. “He handled everything delicately. Not just the hospital bills, which you shouldn’t have to worry about at all, but he was with me in every step of the way. Reached out to every professional, doctors, security, you name it. Deployed his men all over the building like a small army which is crazy, right, I bump into one of them at every corner. It’s annoying.”

“It’s sweet,” May says, somehow amused with this whole situation. Peter doesn’t know how to feel about it. “He’s good to you.”

“He really is. Good, I mean. Nice to me.” _He is nice, he’s a lot of things, just not mine._

“That’s all I need to know,” she adds with a note of relief, unaware of the turmoil going on in Peter’s inner world.

They talk for some time, which during May’s eyes seem to lose focus more and more and Peter does all the talking for both of them.

“Are you taking your pills on time?” May asks. “Tell me you didn’t neglect them during all this.”

“...I may or may not have forgetten about them, not gonna lie,” Peter grimaces.

“Peter, baby, why’d you do that? I can’t bear to see you like that a second time around, you know that.”

“I _know_, May, I was going to—“

The knock on the door stops Peter from saying any further, and it occurs to him only than that he left the door slightly open. With an enormous size of bouquet Mr Stark appears behind it—Peter can only hope that he didn’t hear a thing.

“It’s hard to believe she’s someone’s aunt!”

May laughs and tends to cover her side with a subtle wince. “It’s a shame I’m unavailable at the moment, dear!”

Mr Stark laughs too, an attractive sound that boils something in the pit of Peter’s stomach. He turns and shoots a look at her aunt. _Seriously?_ _Gonna flirt in front of me? After all the tears I shed for you?_

“You will fully recover ‘till the summer comes, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’ve never thought otherwise. I’m in best hands thanks to you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

They exchange a kind smile, and Peter relaxes in his seat. Huh. This went pretty well than Peter expected.

Wait.

“No one’s told me that—How long will she be staying here, exactly?”

“The gunshot wound isn’t a minor one,” Mr Stark tells him. “Even after the stitches heal, she will still need care in the highest degree. A full treatment around six months will do.”

And _that_, Peter didn’t actually give much thought to. He gets up from his seat and walks towards the window as if that will get him an answer. No one speaks up and that only makes his thoughts louder.

“You’re just gonna have to take me with you then,” he simply says. May clearly has other ideas, because she shakes her head in negative. “I’ll help you get better, c’mon. Wouldn’t you want me to stick around?”

“The doctors are taking care of me so well, baby. There’s no need for you to skip classes and nurse me.”

“I can always pick up from where I left off.”

“I would never approve of that decision.”

“Which is mine to make,” Peter purses his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“How about you come with me?”

Mr Stark suggests it with the utmost composure and kindness, without having a single clue of what goes on with Peter, how deep he’s fallen, how doomed he is to the point of confusing dreams with reality, _yearning_ _for him_. How can Peter stay under the same roof with this man, does he even have that self control to begin with?

May doesn’t seem... surprised. That makes Peter all the more confused.

“What do you mean, Mr Stark?”

“It’s not safe for you to go back home, Peter. We both know that,” Mr Stark begins, stating a fact Peter is persistent not to see. “There’s also no way you can stay here and keep up with your daily activities in order.”

“I can do it, no one is-“

“It’s the best shot we got,” May interrupts them, making which side she’s on pretty clear.

He is hurt, alright. Peter feels hurt and hesitant as he takes a few steps towards May’s side again, basking in the motherly warmth the touch provides when her hand gently covers his. “You think that this is easy for me? I need you to stay safe now more than ever, Peter. I can’t provide that for you for some time which brings me to my point. Who else than Mr Stark can we really rely on at the moment? Just think about it, please.”

Peter firmly wants to stick to his own plan, however her eyes are soft and pleading as they search for an answer.

He knows what the answer will be. Eventually.

Still, he can’t come up with a response. It’s a hurricane inside his mind. How will he be able to stay safe under Mr Stark’s roof, when all he wants to do is throw himself in his arms and he has to keep himself in check from doing exactly _that_? Just how.

“I’m gonna need more coffee.”

*

“It went quite well.”

Tony crunches his nose. “You think?”

“Nothing good without a little resistance. I know my boy,” May smiles fondly to herself. “He’s doing everything in his power to stay strong.”

“Yes he does.”

Tony senses a subtle message lurking behind that statement and wonders if it’s somehow related to the conversation he overheard before walking in to the room—the thing about pills and Peter’s _condition._

This is a topic he’ll need to dig into later on.

He moves away from the white plain wall he leans on and makes his way to her bedside. “You gotta tell me what you remember.”

“Right.”

May stares hard at her lap as she tries to recall her attacker. “I’d just came back from grocery shopping. There was no trace of resistance at the door lock, I mean how would I know. I could sense something was off the moment I set my foot inside.”

“What happened?”

“It was chaos, muted chaos,” she takes a deep breath and pauses, clearly having difficulty choosing the right words. Tony gives her some time to collect herself. “The moment I turned on the lights I saw our—our _home_ was ruined into pieces. Destroyed. I barely even remember dialing Peter’s number, needing to assure myself that he was safe. Next thing I know I saw Carla’s dead body and I... totally lost it.”

“You saw anybody else?”

“I—yes. I did. I started screaming in panic, like I said I freakin’ lost it, when I realized I wasn’t alone in there. The guy was wearing a black mask and it was all blury and happened in a sec, I can’t remember much else. He shot me and jumped off from the window.”

The high possibility of Peter experiencing that sort of thing is terribly maddening, almost enough to form a headache and haunt him for days to come. He gives a curt nod, trying to reassure May if not himself. “This is more than enough, May. I’ll work on it.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

“The thing is, a rogue Alpha attacked Peter some time ago.” His jaw clenches at the reminder. _Yes, the headache is here to stay._ “I need to know if these two cases are linked in any way.”

“I’m sure this one wasn’t an Alpha. His movements were too reckless. I have no idea why he was there in the first place. We don’t have enemies, don’t owe any debt. No one comes to mind that could hold grudge against us.”

“I’ll look through it, you don’t have to worry.”

“I worry, Mr Stark.” May’s sorrowful gaze is a mirror of his own demons. “I worry about my boy. Please try to persuade him to come with you, for my sake.”

“He needs you.”

“He needs _you._” May corrects him. “You love him, don’t you.”

How could he _not_.

“No way the great Tony Stark would go out of his way just to see an eighteen year old dancer from Queens _smile_. Peter needs someone he loves, and you love him. He needs you.”

_You’re all I have_, Peter had said to him.

“He can trust me with anything.”

“He thrusts you more than he should, if you ask me.”

_Ah_. Tony must’ve seen that coming.

“I’ll keep him in sight,” he promises. “Won’t let anything happen to him.”

“I am a true beliver of actions Mr Stark, and quite frankly one must be blind to not notice the way you look at him. So thank God I was right about you.”

“I.” Did Tony falter _just now_?

“It’s not a magical wand that makes anything about this okay. It’s far from that. But,” she coughs, jerking from her position. Tony leans forward to give her a hand but she politely shakes it off. “I saw how he looked at you too, so.”

His head is filled with white noise and his heart is going to burst out of his chest any second—in this state, Tony should’ve been the one who laid on that hospital bed.

“I also don’t care if you’re the head of the bloodiest mafia family there ever exists. You can be anything you want to be, to whomever you want to. When it comes to my boy you will be what he wants, what he needs. Can you promise me that, Mr Stark? Can you promise my boy’s safety before anybody else’s?”

_Do you trust me?_

_I trust you with my life._

“You have my word.”

*

Tony finds Peter sitting at one of the seats placed in front of a doctor’s clinic at the sixth floor, and thinks what business he might possibly have there. He glances at the silver nameplate attached onto the wall, engraved in black lettters is written _Dr Stephen Strange._

Oddly enough, his profession isn’t specified.

Peter holds a cup of coffee in his hand, full to the brim and probably cooled down by now. He lets go of it when he spots Tony approach and sit beside him. It’s quet between them until Peter speaks up:

“I feel like someone’s following us.”

Tony blinks at him.

“My Omega senses never lie.”

“What’s Omega _senses_?”

“How would you know,” Peter bemoans, hunching his shoulders and covering his mouth with a hand so no one will be able to read his lips. He looks adorable in his little disguise mode.

“There’re my men all over this place, _tesoro_, why worry about a thing,” Tony assures him with a light chuckle.

“It’s like someone’s especially following us. I sensed that when we were at the restaurant, too.”

Tony scratches at his beard. “About that.”

“Were those your men too? Wha—Okay. Just tell me, do they follow you everywhere?”

“When necessary.”

He hears Peter sigh. “It looks like an all-time thing to me.”

“You could say that.”

Tony sees him fidgeting with his fingers, nearly squirming in his place. A sign that he recognizes so well by now, a sign of distress. He moves closer to grab at Peter’s hands, the urge to calm the Omega’s nerves and provide security is persistent as ever. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t feel safe with them,” Peter mumbles, gaze on the ground.

His lashes display a beautiful shadow play over his cheekbones, distracting his thoughts. With that pretty face there was no crime he wouldn’t be able to get away with, nothing that wouldn’t get him what he wanted, and Tony would be on his knees, a slave at his mercy.

“No one’s going to touch you, let alone hurt you. I’d never let that happen.”

Peter gives him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, Tony knows. He tries to reason with him: “It’s for your safety as much as my peace of mind.”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Mr Stark. I really do. But it reminds me of that time when.”

Peter doesn’t finish his thought and that’s exactly when the sub-meaning rises to the surface: how frightened Peter must’ve been the first night they met, facing the rogue Alpha in the dead of the night all by himself even though he was defenseless.

“I won’t truly be able to leave the past behind me if I know someone is backing me up all the time.”

That angelic face is not used to violence and ferocity in its most horrific form, things that what Tony’s life is surrounded with, a threat at every breath. Tony feels horrible for being the cause of the sad look in his eyes, and if he can’t fix that is he even worth to be Peter’s Alpha at all? Or worse, is he even worth of earning Peter’s trust?

“There’s not much people worth keeping around, you see, and since I’ve found them I would like to keep them safe. This is the only way to do that.”

“I see,” Peter sniffles, the tip of his nose a rosy red, head bend to the side. Too adorable for his own good.

“What about we meet in midpoint?”

He grabs Peter’s hand and turns his palm upwards, careful not to touch the ghostly scar of burn remaining from the accident at the restaurant.

“You’re standing here,” he taps the beginning of Peter’s heartlines, “and I’m right here,” then he traces the curvy end with a gentle stroke. “I say, let’s meet halfway and we’ll be even.” If Peter buckles his wrist, their fingers will intertwine.

“How so?”

“Easy.”

“It’s not easy.” Peter objects for some reason Tony can’t seem to understand. It’s never been this much difficult to get what he wanted in life, Tony thinks ruefully.

“Come with me.” _Take my hand._

“I can’t.”

“You _can_. You can stay with me ‘till I pin down the bastard behind all this and May can focus on her recovery knowing you’re safe with me. She’ll most likely be on her feet around the time your summer holidays begins.” His voice is steady but his eyes just show it, he knows, begs Peter for it even, to_ let me, please let me._ “Besides Happy will make sure everything is in place and keep her out of trouble.”

“Are you sure? Happy hates me,” Peter says, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

“He hates everyone,” Tony swallows. He needs something to drink. “Think about it.”

They’re pressed close, sharing their body heats in what became a familiar intimateness over time. This close, Tony can see that tiny mouth trapped between naughty teeth, making the blood rush over the sensitive skin and paint it red. It painfully remains a mystery if it tastes like how Tony has dreamed of it, hell, or _hallucinated_ it.

“Let me do something. Anything,” he grunts softly.

Peter doesn’t answer, but his fingers tenderly clamp down on Tony’s.

*

“It’s a hell of a mess, I’m telling you. They slayed the freaking cat on top of it.”

“Damn. Peter must be upset.”

“Very,” Tony sighs. “It’s not safe for him to go back home. Can’t have that.”

“So you convinced the kid to come with you, huh?” Rhodey chuckles. “The pet trick never gets old.”

“Shut up, Rhodey.”

“I just have you figured out, is that why you’re so grumpy?”

“Oh wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I can count all the reasons why this is a _bad_, bad idea, first of all the huge power imbalance—”

“Whatever.”

“—between you guys, and the colossal age gap added to the mix does not help _at all_—”

“People doesn’t care much about it nowadays.”

“They _care_, idiot. If there’s someone who doesn’t care all about it, it means they’re in love and shit.”

The childish part of him would like to reply to that statement wholeheartedly—if he did not see Peter making his way to the car from the rearview mirror.

“Listen, I gotta go now. Remember what we’ve talked about. You gotta inspect the root of this thing.”

“Sure thing man. I’ll take care of it.”

“Let me know anything you can find,” he stresses.

“Leave it to me.”

“Yeah.”

They hang up just in time Peter gets in the car and fills the air with the sweet scent of his, making Tony’s nostrils flare. 

“Hey Mr. Stark. I think we’re good to go.”

“Great. My men already got everything you need from your place, and everything’s set.”

“You’re the best.”

“Hardly.”

“_Honestly._ Thank you, Mr Stark.”

“No need to, Peter. You never need to thank me, how many times have I told you that?” he asks, reaching to pinch the soft cheeks of his.

They have become less restrained and more touchy-feely since the unfortunate turn of events. Peter’s been radiating a sour energy of agony for his beloved ones which is totally understandable, but the urge that arises in Tony’s chest as a result of that—the urge to alleviate _his_ beloved one’s pain and distress has reached to an to an insufferable degree.

“That’s the thing that worries me,” Peter replies.

“Focus on yourself and worry for nothing, alright? I don’t want to see a single crease here,” he lightly taps at the silky brow, thumb sliding on the short hairs.

“I know I can always count on you,” Peter sighs, seemingly content, leaning on Tony’s big, calloused palm that nearly cups half of his face, making the greedy beast inside him growl pleasant.

“Anything feels off or becomes too much, you tell me. Or not, if you don’t feel like it.”

“Yeah, about that...”

“What is it?”

“Not that I’m backing out of our deal, but if I see your men popping up behind my back like the goddamn ninja turtles...”

Tony laughs at that. “I guess you’ve got a point.”

“You think I’m being paranoid.”

“No, sweetheart. You could’ve called the police, remember?”

That makes Peter giggle all soft and sweet and finally seem at ease. Tony is a simple man, and listens to the sound of Peter’s voice in awe: a cursing spell that he doesn’t want to break out of.

Of course the answer doesn’t consist of a frivolous ‘whatever’ when he thinks about it. Tony is aware of the differences, the imbalances and unfairness of it all. It’s just that he bypasses all the warning signs the moment Peter steps into the scene with an angelic halo of goodness and purity around his head, illuminating the dark and twisted corners of Tony’s very essence, blinding his sight with it, turning him into an unchained, mad creature.

“You’ll go anywhere you want to, eat the best cuisine and sleep soundly at night,” Tony murmurs, sure of himself. “I’ll make sure there isn’t a threat neither to you nor your Aunt. That’s what we agreed to.”

The pheromones of a content Omega permeate into the little space they share as the pink crawls up Peter’s neck in degrees, and Tony breathes it in, deep, the close proximity making him want to absorb all the oxygen in his lungs like a desert thirsty for rain, and take and take and take, until there’s nothing left to consume. Until there’s nothing left of Peter, and nothing left of him.

*

The mansion is as glorius and massive as Peter remembers it to be.

He steps inside with Mr Stark next to him, more than grateful for his support in every step of the way—literally and figuratively. Visiting each floor for a fair amount of time, Peter realizes there’s a lot more he has to explore during his stay here, and he doesn’t think he’d get tired of it any soon. They begin their tour with rooms specially designed to have meetings, parties and charities, even to hold a concert for when a performer from anywhere around the world is invited. _That’s—that’s insane, Mr Stark! Could we, um, maybe one day invite—_

_Anything you wish for, Pete._

Next is the advanced library of world classics neatly providing a dream-like escape if one ever needs, alongside an equally amazing theatre with an advanced sound system nonetheless. There’s a well-built gym with innovative showers and olympic pools he’d love to exercise sometime soon, too. During their walk servants appear at every corner around the place, yet they professionally make their presence as quiet as possible, simply going about their work.

The final stop is the heart of technology of the illustrious Stark Industries, the mover and shaker of the world in a sense—an enormous lab that covers the whole floor of the building where the visionary and gigantic innovations are born.

“_Woah_. It’s glowing blue in here.”

“Yeah, I’ll need to work on the decoration some time soon.”

“Hey, I like it as it is,” Peter tells him in astonishment. “It’s beautiful.” There are all kinds of tech and stimulation to process, magically capturing his attention all at once, and it makes his head spin to the point he dumbfoundedly finds himself bumping into a robot.

The poor thing bows its head as in apology.

“DUM-E, so rude.”

“It’s okay.” Peter pats the head fondly, and DUM-E makes a whirring sound, spinning in its place.

“You’re spoiling him. Why am I not surprised,” Mr Stark laughs.

“Can’t be always on the receiving end.”

Mr Stark shows him the ongoing projects, even the ones off the market and rather claimed as classified info, and asks for Peter’s opinion in return as if they’re two mad scientists.

“Is that a new element?”

“_That_ happened accidently.”

“Accidently?” Peter gasps.

“I was tinkering—just out of boredom, mind you, and then—”

“No _way_.”

They laugh and cackle at their seats and tinker around for an unknown amout of time after that. Peter bombards Mr Stark with endless questions and the Alpha answers each one of them with care, elaborating where necessary, all the while smiling with a gleam in his eyes. It’s easy to forget how the time passes so quickly by simply being in the same room with the man who’s on top of the world, sharing mutual interests and exchanging crazy ideas back and forth. Peter feels cared, secure, and he shouldn’t assign a different meaning to it, shouldn’t feel butterflies turning his belly upside down whenever their elbows or knees touch and stay there, warm radiating on his skin even through the layers of clothing, feeling connected. Connected to here, connected to now.

Connected to Tony.

*

The rest of the day goes smoothly, and after they end up filling their bellies with savory Italian cuisine Peter is already settled in his new room which is no less elegant and luxurious than the rest of the mansion. Once more it occurs to him that this all happened as a result of a tragical series of events and it upsets him. His heart is heavy with the dramatic loss of his beloved one, Carla, and his home in Queens. He was forcefully parted from his dear friend and home, stolen of his needs and family and he won’t forgive the one caused it.

He’s jumping on the bed (as a way to distract himself from the clouding thoughts) by the time Mr Stark comes in, the texture soft and yielding under his full weight.

Mr Stark carries two jumbo mugs of hot chocolate _and_ chocolate chip cookies in a large plate, the sweet aroma filling in the room right away.

“Woah! Those came right out of the oven?” Peter beams, arms flying in the air.

“Hell _yeah_,” Mr Stark grins, and tickles the back of Peter’s knee with his free hand, a mischievous touch that signals Peter to lay down—a touch that spreads goosebumps all over his skin. He prevents himself from collapsing on the bed just in time.

“You’re gonna burn the roof of your mouth,” Mr Stark fondly says as Peter buries his face in sugar.

“That’s how you eat them.” He takes another bite, and hums pleasantly at the melting flavour on his tongue.

“So you don’t need me feeding you anymore?”

Peter is reminded by the time they’d spent at the restaurant once again: in which he unashamedly asked the man to feed him just out of jealousy—which Mr Stark doesn’t need to know about. “Excuse me, sir, you seem to be the one who’s in need of some feeding this time,” Peter reaches forward and takes the cookie from the man’s grasp.

“If you say so,” Mr Stark grins and opens his mouth to welcome the sweet bite.

Soon they find themselves feeding each other; chocolate dripping from their chins and fingertips, shoulders bumping each other and bodies getting warmer. It’s an obscene scene to watch the Alpha stick out his tongue to lick the tip of his fingers clean, so he pretends to be indulging himself in the sweet yearnings some more. Oh, how Peter craves the same treatment for himself too, maddingly. The things they could do with that chocolate sauce. The things that _mouth_ could do. Does, in fact, according to the magazines and top models and countless stars from all around the world. According to that gorgeous red head Peter had seen some time ago: Mr Stark’s lady.

He takes a long sip from his drink.

Duh. _What a way to burn_.

“You doin’ okay there Pete?”

“Y-yeah,” he touches the side of his neck, bending it slightly, “must be chocolate coma I think.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that Mr Stark’s eyes track the motion, slow. “You must be tired,” he says quietly.

“I guess I am.“

“Did you even get any sleep lately?”

“None that I can remember.” He was running high on adrenaline the whole time so it’s not his fault. “I don’t wanna go to sleep, actually.”

“Nightmares?”

Peter crunches his nose at that. “Not really.”

He could even tell him that he loved him if it ever came down to that, but he couldn’t dare say it came to a point where his admiration and longing turned into wild, vivid dreams, engaging with his reality. “What about you?”

“I’m not much of a sleeper at all. Always too loud here,” Mr Stark taps at his temple. “What’d you like to do instead?”

_My heart can’t handle your undivided attention for more than 24 hours, and it can’t survive much without it at the same timespan either, is what’s going on,_ would be the honest answer.

If he’s going to live with the Alpha for the foreseeable future at least he should get used to these intimate moments and make the best of it while he’s in it. It doesn’t make the notion in which Mr Stark doesn’t belong to him any less true but Peter doesn’t want to lie. “We can talk some more. I... I like the way you talk.”

_Dummy_. They’ve been talking for hours to begin with.

“So you like hearing my voice,” Mr Stark smirks, but there’s a pinkish colour to his cheeks. “How about I tell you scary stories for the night?”

Peter lightly bumps him on the shoulder. “That’s funny, Mr Stark. But I’d like to know more about what keeps you up at night.”

“Depends. It’s either _is the quantum realm real_ or _what’s Pepper gonna complain about me tomorrow_. She handles the company very well though.”

_Pepper_. She must be the one. “You’re her boss, she will find something to complain about you anyways,” Peter tries to laugh it off with ease.

“Well, that’s me. She’ll think of something.”

“I can’t help but think you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“You’d think that because we’re the same, _tesoro_,” Mr Stark acknowledges. “You work damn hard to get on top of the world on your tiptoes, and that makes two of us.”

“I’ve never looked at it that way, but it rings true,” Peter chuckles. “Any advice on that?”

Mr Stark responds to that with a chuckle that is distinctly darker than Peter’s, pointing his fingers at his head: “I know ways to get rid of a lot of things.”

Peter can’t help but wonder: “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Stark. None of them comes close to who you really are. You tinker around with stuff for hours and make a mess of yourself in motor oil. It’s hard to imagine you killing someone just because you take pleasure in it.”

Mr Stark looks at a vague point somewhere on the wall, his head rested on the soft, velvet headboard.

“I wanted to.”

The breath Peter holds comes out shaky. Like a flash, the quick motion Mr Stark made with his hand comes to mind: the gunshot.

“How can I forget the night we met? That bastard had it coming,” Mr Stark grunts. “There was nothing I wanted to do more than to kill him and I was _about to,_ dammit. Not even with a gun, just my bare hands. Itched to feel his pressure slowly vanish under my palm. Aganizingly slow.”

The knuckles on Mr Stark’s hands are white as a sheet as they form into two forcible fists, and his voice gets lower and lower with each word confessed: Peter can almost make out the snarl, rapt and animalistic, lurking beneath the surface.

“I’d take such pleasure in it. Wouldn’t stop until the corpse would rot and stink.”

_I still don’t believe what you think you saw that day. It’s already fucked up that you’re attracted to him, but this? You should talk to him about it._

_You know I can’t._

_Why the hell not?_

Peter doesn’t say anything, can’t, in fact, when the simplest act of breathing suddenly became a difficult task to manage. He should be scared, horrified, even disgusted, yet the warmth surrounding his body gravitates towards something less innocuous and more dangerous, his toes curl for utterly different sensations. The rogue Alpha is long gone and Peter came to terms with why he should’ve been killed long ago, but it’s not _Tony_ who did it. An assasin, or one of his many men, but not him. Not Tony. 

Peter bets his life on it.

He puts a hand over his, careful and caressing and connected, and watches the tight fist unfold and skin gradually switch into a natural colour of red, blood flooding in his veins again. “I’m glad you didn’t,” Peter says. “I don’t regret anything, if that’s what worries you. What happened that very first night is what led us to spend many more just like this, don’t you think?”

Mr Stark gives his hand a light squeeze. “I knew the value of trust you’ve bestowed on me. Not a fool to waste it.”

They’re too close that Peter can make out the short baby hairs covered in grey, which only serves Mr Stark to look more attractive. He smells amazing up-close too.

Peter must’ve gone too hard to indulge himself in that seductive smell that what he hoped was a subtle inhale turns into a ridiculously big yawn.

“Go to sleep, sweetpie. You had a long day.”

Mr Stark says that but his thumb keeps stroking his wrist in a torturously slow pace where their hands are still in contact. The circling touch of skin against skin makes Peter feel dizzy with heat, a different form of torture than the sleep deprivation. It’s probably for the best that Mr Stark shall take his leave for the night, but the vulnerable and unguarded part of him can’t bear the thought of being alone tonight.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep if I’m not hugging a pillow,” Peter blurts out.

“Pillow cuddling?”

“I’m not ashamed admitting to that.”

The Alpha doesn’t point to loads of pillows nested behind their backs for some reason. Maybe, just maybe for the same reason Peter feels tonight. It’s what gives him the courage to take a step forward. “Be my pillow?”

He shoots a tentative look under his lashes and waits.

Then:

“You’re not scared of the dark are you?” Mr Stark mocks him, yet slowly gets up to kick of his shoes and loosens up a few buttons of his shirt to get comfortable. _Yes_. When he makes his way to the bed again it’s all casual and chill. Peter rests his head on the broad chest, a smile playing on his lips despite his efforts.

“You’re much comfier than my pillow.”

“Oh yeah? Want me to sing lullaby to you?”

Mr Stark gets a smack for that, right above his torso. Peter shamelessly leaves his hand at there, feeling the hard muscles rise and fall under his touch.

“You're like a needy baby,” Mr Stark keeps at it, though his voice comes out too soft to be teasing him anymore.

He plays with Peter’s wavy locks, slow and smooth, injecting pleasure and happiness to his scalp and neck whenever his fingers lightly scratch at it. The Omega cherishes being in close proximity to such a powerful man in the world of all things, hoping, dreaming that when he wakes up this moment won’t be confused with a cunning hallucination.

It’s too good to be real after all.

*

Tony wakes up, a tired eye cracking open to survey the room. It must still be in the middle of the night, he thinks. He wakes up...

...to Peter grinding on him; sensually, ever so slowly.

In a battlefield of pure panic and arousal, Tony debates with himself whether he should wake Peter up or simply, shamelessly let the boy lose himself in a place where he must be blissfully and completely at ease. But things between them never went according to the way it should have been, right? Tony shouldn’t have meddled with his life from the second time around, Peter shouldn’t have been mixed up in all this. Peter shouldn’t be here let alone share a bed with him.

It’s a losing battle, isn’t it, and it’s just to salve his conscience at this point. Tony feels warm and content to stay where he is, and his heart ponders in his chest like a manic where Peter’s soft curls are rested against.

In the end being the old bastard that he is, he lets it happen. Feels the pliable warmth of Peter’s body and watches his expression going lax, desperately chasing his relief in an unconscious dreamland, his flesh and bones all pliant and open to outside impulses—a dangerous, tempting sight to behold.

Seconds pass, breathing becomes a compelling task, his muscles go stiff trying to keep still and the worst part is Tony fucking revels in it. His dick hardens and spurts precome like he’s fifteen all over again, and he has no goddamn excuse for this, tired of denying his needs, worn to a frazzle. He can’t help bucking his hips into the empty air, just a few strokes, that’s all it would take—or nothing at all.

He convinces himself that he is doing a favour to the Omega, letting him feel good after everything he’s been through, not touching him anywhere besides one arm thrown over his shoulders: an innocent, natural sleeping position. Peter’s motives are not so innocent if ‘natural’ all the same, for he fucks himself in Tony’s embrace slowly with intent, dick digging into Tony’s hip, and from the thin layers of clothing Tony can feel the hardness of it, the hotness of it, the wetness of it—

He bites into his bottom lip, catching himself right before he lets out a moan into the dead silence and like a signal from the Alpha to the Omega Peter starts to let out little noises of distress, he clutches at Tony’s shirt tighter, mouth slackened and breathing hotly against the center of Tony’s chest where his heart beats frantically, thrumming a frenzied melody.

He wants to bite into the crook of Peter’s neck, suck on the sleep-warm skin and nibble at the tiny earlobe between his teeth until the boy would get hurt and bleed. He itches to hold the long, dainty throat in a single grasp, and his palm would cover the whole meat of it and tighten around it, thumb pressing in the vein, suffocating briefly but perfect, just on the right side of the pain. He would mix blood with spit, a chaotic, sick desire to travel down and down and reach there where Peter is hot and leaking slick: a silky getaway to heavens. He would trace around the tight ring of muscle with slick and skillful hands; rough, deep, insatiable, pushing a finger in so deep like he wishes he was fucking him with his—

Peter’s hold on his shoulders tighten with a final thrust and Tony can feel the vibrations of pleasure shaking his limbs to the core, also wetting Tony’s pants through the thin layers of clothing.

Tony feels his entire world shudder, his thoughts dying and his willpower giving in every delusional and wicked way. It’s sudden and nearly blinding, his dick shoots in the air and wets his already moist boxers, coming undone with a wish locked away inside— he can’t dare touch Peter nor himself, trapped in forbidden sensations, besotted.

So near and yet so far; it’s killing him.

Peter is young and sweet and definitely not suited for the ruthless life Tony is doomed to live in. People will go after him to get to Tony and use him as bait with extreme brutality, or just to get on Tony’s nerves on a good day, if he’s lucky. There are a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t let Peter in—good, logical reasons that lose all sense and sanity versus one; he’s never going to stop loving Peter Parker. Pure, uncontrollable love that knows no boundries.

_You cross the line before you know it and it’s too damn late, _he’d said to him. _I’ll do anything. Anything..._

Tony grunts, eyes shut, and chases the feeling until it fades away in the dark.

* * *

[1] Anything... and I mean anything...

[2] I was looking for you everywhere.


End file.
